


Desperate Times

by OurLittleSecretOkay



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Blood Kink, Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Bondage, Crying, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Gunplay, Mount fraught syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, dubcon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-09
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-08-20 21:16:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16563281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurLittleSecretOkay/pseuds/OurLittleSecretOkay
Summary: This is not a good story and you should not read it.Takes place three years after the books in some sort of universe where The End doesn't happen, IDK. Don't think about it too much. Warnings for Dubcon, Noncon, violence, body horror, and a complete disregard for any sort of potential redemption. All characters depicted above the AOC





	1. Chapter 1

How long had he waited for this moment? Years. Centuries, it felt like. His belongings were stuffed with photographs with the faces scratched out, newspapers with blurry articles, and the occasional receipt. They had been careful, had almost disappeared. Almost. Nothing was ever really gone. Not even him. 

When she walked into the room, it was as if no time at all had passed; she had always looked older than she was. He took credit for that. It wasn't until he got a good look at her face that he could see the small differences time had made. 

 

His grip on her arms is sharp as he smacks her back against the wall. In the shock, she says the only thing she can think to say. 

“No-”

“Did you really think that you could outrun me? That I wouldn't find you?” 

She doesn't cry, staring him straight in the eyes, the way only the hopelessly desperate do, doesn't look away because she can't, “You're not here right now. You're not here.”

“I might not be as much ghost as you had hoped, but I will admit to haunting you,” he digs his fingers further into her arms. “I had almost hoped you'd be more clever than this, walking right into a trap. How did you survive this long so stupid?”

 

He sees her eyes dart to the door, but before she can do anything, he's kicking it shut, “Don't bother. No one is coming.”

“If you think-”

“I think-” he interrupts, “that you are more gullible than you'd like to believe. Last I remember, you were supposed to be the smart one. Pity how things change.”

“You've been here the entire time?” She looks around the room, following the piles of miscellany with her eyes, disgust creeping in on the terror. 

“You'd be surprised how patient I can be, Orphan.”

“And the other passengers?”

“A fun mixture of unsuspecting civilians and outright foes. I'm afraid, my dear, you are entirely alone.” 

“How did you even get on board? We-”

“Does it matter? It's too late now for stupid questions. Sufficient to say I am, and if you'd like to survive, I'd start with doing a better job of shutting up.”

“Or what?” Aggressive, she shakes off his grip, “you'll kill me?”

“Getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Not unless you make me. And seeing as you're trapped at sea with me-” 

“You are  _ just _ as much trapped with me!” 

“Yes, but _ I  _ have something that you don't.”

“Insatiable horrendousness?”

“I would have said a stronger will, but fair enough. I'm not afraid of, shall we say,” stepping closer to her, he sneers, “breaking a few eggs.”

 

Involuntarily, she shudders, “And I'm supposed to be afraid of you?”

Clicking his tongue, he shakes his head with a wicked grin, “I knew you weren't smart enough for that, no. See, the unfortunate thing about such attachments is they can often… hinder you.”

“Your point?”

“As soon as we stop, you're going to come with me to collect your two nightmares of siblings and all the money in your deep pockets.”

“Or else?” 

“Or else, I might be forced to do something…” he pauses, making sure the horror has sunk in, “unfortunate.”

“So you'll kill me if I don't?” Her clandestine voice takes him by surprise. 

“I thought I made that clear.”

“Fine,” she crosses her arms, “kill me.”

There is a moment of silence as they regard each other.

“If you think I'm bluffing-”

“I know you're not. I'm not either. But you don't want to kill me.”

“Oh, Orphan,” his palms itch at her words, “if you had any idea of the sheer magnitude of-”

“You want to kill me, sure, but I'm worth more to you alive.” 

The sheer disbelief at her boldness causes him up laugh. “Stubborn, aren't we? After all this time, you still think you have anything you can offer me?”

“I'm the only one who can give you what you want.” She says the words matter-of-factly, still hesitant in her desperation. 

At that, he perks up, almost laughs again, “What I want? I can already have whatever I want, Orphan.”

“You don't even know where they are.”

“Don't I?” He smiles, “I'd recommend you start gaining some perspective. There's no one here to save you this time.” 

“I don't need to be saved.”

“You don't?” Stepping closer, he draws his face so close to hers, he can feel when she holds her breath. Despite it all, she doesn't shrink away. “Brave little Violet can handle it on her own? Thinks I won't kill her just for the fun of it?”

“You won't kill me until you've gotten the fortune, with or without my help.”

“I only need one brat for that. You just happen to be the first I've caught up with. You're dispensable, Violet.”

“You'd kill my siblings before you'd even think to kill me.”

Still sneering, he leans back, “And what makes you so sure?”

“It's the cruelest thing.” 

“Clever girl, aren't we?” pinching her chin between his fingers, he forces her to look up, forces her to meet his eyes. “You always were my favorite. Even that can't save you, though. You're right. It would be _criminal_ to waste such a pretty face. Yes, I'll keep you alive long enough to make it to the reunion, but when I do,” snarling, he tightens his grip, “I'll make sure your last moments live up my _very_ _creative_ expectations.”

Despite her bravado, he can feel her tremble, though that might just be the force of his own pulse.

“Why all three of us, then, if you only need one?”

“Call it a loose ends contingency. Besides, wouldn't it be better than making them die alone just for the sake of your own selfishness? I did so want the pleasure of doing it myself, but I could send someone-

“They've done nothing--If you'd just leave us alone, I'll sign over everything!”

“I'm more than adept at taking.” 

“Give me time, a few months and you can have everything-”

“Oh, yes. Why wouldn't I trust such a generous offer?” As if to make a point he shoves her again. “Surely the… collateral would be more thorough incentive to make sure you don't change your mind?”

“Leave them alone and you can have whatever-”

“And deny me the right to destroy you?”

“I won't fight.”

“I don't need your permission to take your money, Orphan-” 

“Anything you want. I won't fight. At all.” Unblinking, she sets her jaw.  

A contented putting roars inside his chest before he even gathers the implications of her words.

“You think any fight in you would be an issue for me?”

“Historically, yes.”

“Maybe I enjoy your fight.” Just as quickly, he snaps his hand down to her sternum, pressing her back against the wall. Taking a shuddering breath in, she gasps, grasping at his hand as his fingers slide closer to her throat. Tears stand in the edges of her eyes as she takes the impact, breathing between clenched teeth. “Maybe I like you at my mercy, Orphan.”

“But they'll be safe?”

Pausing, he glances over her face, takes in the dark lining of her eyelashes. She’s frantic, exhausted, tired from the chase. How often had he thought of her like this, climbing into his waiting grasp? He wants her to cry, to give up, to let him finally, finally win. 

“You won't be.”

“That doesn't matter.” 

“You're playing a dangerous game, Orphan.”

 

“Please.” Her eyes close as he draws his face much too close to her own. 

“Beg me,” he growls the words, the familiar terror heavy in her gut. “Beg me for your life.” 

“Please,” she says again, trying not to cry. “Please don't hurt them. I'll do whatever you want, I'll-”

“Typical--you're all such martyrs. Serves you right,” muttering the last part, he takes a slow breath in, as if smelling her hair. She doesn't open her eyes to find out.

“You won't hurt them?”

“Perhaps… Oh, but I've so been so looking forward to destroying you and your brat siblings. Sometimes,” he whispers so soft, she can feel his lips on her ear, “I lay awake, imagining it; the look on that pretty face when I kill you.”

“Please,” she hates how the word breaks as a whimper. 

“Anything I want?”

“Anything,” the word shakes as his free hand begins to push up along her side. 

“Well,” he draws the word out slowly, “there is quite a lot that I want.” 

“Just don't hurt them.”

“I'll settle for not killing them. For now.” Slowly, working the moment, he presses his tongue to the hollow beneath her jaw, against her racing pulse. She wishes herself away, out of this body. He snarls, “Is that a deal then, Brat?”

“You won't hurt them.” Her voice trembles as one of his hands covers her breast. 

“You're not in a position to tell me what to do. We'll see, though. They are a nice currency, aren't they, Orphan?” 

Turning her face away, she wills back the tears, “Whatever you want, but you leave them alone. That's the deal “

“What I want,” losing all pretense, he moves his hand up to cover her throat, “is to destroy you.” She does cry then, silent tears that fall down her cheeks, jaw clenched so tight it feels like the bone might crack. 

 

“I don't play nice, Brat.” Teasing for the sake of teasing, he rolls his fingers, feels the terrified rhythm of her pulse. Leaning in, savoring the stutter of her breath against his face, he kisses her cheek, licking the salt from his lips. “Still giving up?”

“Do we have a deal?” She spits the words harshly, brave despite the terror. He smiles. 

“For now.” Slow, he runs his thumb over her breast, enjoys the promising warmth. “Tell me, Violet- have you ever let a man touch you before?” She opens her eyes then, looking at him in silent steely hatred. “Whatever I want; that's what you said. Now tell me,” painfully slowly, he begins to unbutton her dress, “am I first? Second? Third?” Cocking his eyebrow, he smirks. 

“Does it matter?” The words positively vibrate on her tongue.

“For your own sake? Yes.” Stepping into her space, he lopes an arm behind her, pulling her tight to his chest. 

“I'm not telling you that.”

“Spoken like a true virgin,” still smiling, he pulls the fabric from her shoulders, enjoying the way she tucks her arms against herself at the cold air. “Don't worry, Orphan. I'm not in the habit of breaking my playthings before I've had my fun.” 

“You're despicable,” true to her word, she only clenches her teeth, makes no attempt to escape as he palms her over the white cotton of her bra. 

 

“Yes, you're welcome for that.” Dragging his fingers along her bare skin, he lets the neglected dress pool around her waist before pressing his cold hands to her abdomen. She feels every part of her tense up, the horror of it all seeping beneath her skin. But then he is leaning down, pressing kisses to her neck, and she has to hold her breath to keep the smell of him from staining her insides. He smells like salt and burned earth and some sort of over-ripe fruit. In her head, she pictures a fruit basket, left out for a month too long and shudders. 

“So tense,” he whispers the words against her skin. “Do I scare you, Violet?” From the tone of his voice, she knows he knows the answer, and so she doesn't respond. But then his fingers are inching up her stomach, and before she can tell what he's doing, his tongue is sliding over her breast. Reflexively, she shoves him back, but he only laughs, catching her waist. “I thought you said you wouldn't fight, little liar.”

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She is crying then, openly and exhaustedly. Again, he laughs.

“What's wrong, Brat? Changed your mind? A bit late for that, isn't it?” Running his thumbs beneath the straps of her bra, he tugs the white fabric down until she is stripped from the waist up. “But if you'd prefer to renegotiate…” 

 

“The deal stands!” She interrupts him, hurried. 

“Good,” bending down, he takes her breast back into his mouth, feels the hardness of her pert nipple between his teeth. Again, she shrinks back, but she does not shove him away this time. “That's better- You're learning.” Ever amused, he cups her neglected breast, trailing his thumb back as he pinches at her. Her own hands clutch at her skirt as she turns her face up, whimpering. 

“No,” taking her hand, he presses it to the back of his head, “like this.” Fumbling, she follows his directive, holding him loosely. “Tighter. Like this,” wrapping an arm behind her again, he tugs her forward roughly, causing her to arch against him. Silently, she complies with some hesitation. “Good,” still smiling, he runs his tongue along the underside of her breast, glad when she gasps at his touch. He feels her flinch, but she doesn't move away, even when he flicks his tongue over her. Still tense, still frightened, she keeps her shoulders high, craned up by her neck. Standing slowly, he pretends not to watch her face, still distracted by her enchantingly bare chest. 

 

“So, Violet,” not meeting her eyes, he brushes his hands over her naked breasts again, “are you playing to win? Are you just going to sit there and let me have you?”

“If that's what it takes,” she cannot hide the tremble from her voice. 

“If that's what it takes,” he repeats her words back to her, almost giddy. “Well then. Whatever I want, you said?”

“Yes,” she fights the urge to cross her arms defensively. 

“Go on and kiss me, Violet.” Leaning in, he leaves barely an inch between their faces. 

Swallowing hard, she steels herself, feels all of her joints groan in strained anticipation as unhappily, she leans in. 

 

The kiss is brief, her lips tight as she moves so quickly he almost doesn't register it. Almost. 

“You can do better than that. Come on, kiss me as if your brat siblings’ lives depended upon it.”

Furrowing her brow in deep, disgruntled pain, she leans forward again, only to be intercepted by his own kiss. Digging his fingers into her hair, he holds her face tight to his, every part of him sighing in relief as his teeth hit hers. 

Pulling back, she coughs, tries to get some air as he cranes her neck, kisses indentations into her skin. 

“Very good, much better,” he lauds her, smiling at the gasp she gives when he bruises her collarbone. Her hands stay on his shoulders, evidently too terrified to move without permission. He kisses her again, feels the soft give of her lips, the all-consuming warmth of her. Pushing her back into the wall, he groans, letting a leg snake between her thighs. Gasping again, she breaks the kiss, shivering. 

 

“What?” opening his eyes wide, he poorly feigns curiosity. “Are you cold?”

“No,” she lies, certain it wouldn't make a difference if she told the truth. 

“As luck would have it, there is just enough space left in my bed for a cold little Brat to squeeze in. Not much space, I'm afraid, but you could fit quite nicely beneath me if you'd let me between those pretty little legs. Why don't you let me warm you up?”

“I'm fine,” she looks away from his face. 

“Come now, Orphan. I'm trying to be a gentleman. Or would you rather your first time involve me fucking you against a wall?”

“I- The bed is fine.”

“Good girl.” Picking her up, he pivots before tossing her onto the springy mattress. There is barely enough time for her to figure her placement before he is looming over her, looking down with a mixture of curiosity and intrigue. “Now,” waiting for her to sit up, he watches her catch her breath, “open your mouth for me.”

“I don't-”

“Open,” he cocks his eyebrow in such a way that she readily obeys. Slowly, parting his own lips, he slides a finger onto her tongue, pressing it down lightly. “You will do exactly as I say. There will be no crying, no whining, no complaining. Understand?”

Unable to speak, she nods silently, gravelly. He smiles.

“Good. This can be a very nice treat for you, Orphan, but you must know that you belong to me. Understand that?” 

Again, she nods once, and he slides another finger between her lips. 

“You're going to be a good girl for me, aren't you?” 

The terror building, she nods again. 

“When I am through with you,” placing a knee on the bed, he leans in, whispering the words cooly, “you will be ruined. You will be mine, and you will remember as much. Understand?” 

For the last time, she nods, and contented, he draws his fingers from her mouth.

“Good girl.” Straightening up, he begins to tug her dress down over her hips. “Now. Let's see what you've been hiding, shall we?”

The dress is followed by her shoes and socks, until she is left sitting very cold and very naked in just her underwear. Tucking his fingers beneath the hem, he begins to pull those off too. 

Startled, she leans back, “Aren't you going to take off your clothes too?”

“In a minute,” stopping, he smirks, “we have some work to do first.”

“Work?” She furrows her brow anxiously. 

“Of course,” climbing onto the bed, he leans in close to her face. “I don't want you able to say you didn't enjoy it, do I? No, that would make things too easy for you.”

“Why do-”

“Kiss me again,” he smiles, waiting, until she leans forward timidly, kissing his lips. Giving her only a moment, he again tangles his fingers into her hair, pressing her mouth firmly to his. And then, there is the pressure as his tongue finds her teeth, and then again as it slides past them. He groans, and the sound rumbles in her throat. She lets out a squeak as his hand finds her breast again, pinching her. Mistaking her surprise as pleasure, he presses harder against her, massaging the tender skin. Again, his tongue slides into her mouth, his cold fingers drawing down her stomach until he is palming her over her panties.

 

Sighing, he breaks the kiss, letting go of her hair so that he can slide behind her, pressing his chest to her arched back. 

“What are you doing?” She asks again, but he only shushes her, reaching around to cup her breast as the other resettles between her legs. Kissing along her throat, he begins to massage around her nipple with his fingers.

“Just relax into it. Go on and show me how good you can be.” A whine builds between her teeth as his hand brushes between her legs, eager to slip beneath the white cotton. “Good. Let yourself enjoy it; you're only human.”

Not bothering to reply, she tenses and untenses her fingers against the blankets. Again, he draws his hand away from her thighs, wrapping it about her waist as he pulls at her earlobe with his teeth. A groan wracks her body as he presses her firmly to his chest, still massaging the flushed skin of her breast. “Go ahead and touch me, Violet. I want to feel you.” Slowly, her shaking hands reach back to his thighs, settled on either side of her hips. “Good girl,” kissing along her throat, he cups both her breasts in his hands, delighted with the way she squirms at the touch, her knees pressing together. “Do you like the way I make you feel, Violet?” Instead of answering, she shivers, letting her long hair shield her face. “Do you like it when I take what I want? Thought I'd be rude, didn't you? No,” sliding his tongue against her throat, he waited for her guilty whimper, “I know how to do it right. I know how to destroy you, nice and proper.” Her fingers dig into his legs as he tightens his grip. “Do you like the way it feels, Brat? Being mine?”

Syrup-sweet, he moves his hand by inches, until he is again at her hips. Taking his time, he slips a finger beneath the elastic, elated when she gasps and bucks her hips back. Still smirking, he ventures further in, under the cloth, and then, moving down, he is tucking his fingers against soft hair and warm skin, and he is reminded that she is human. 

“Very good girl,” he coos in her ear as she whines, arching her back at his light touch. Still gentle, he begins to rub at her, vindicated in the sudden gasp she gives, hand coming up to clutch at him again. He kisses her throat, her cheek, his pace growing faster with her quickening breath. He feels her strained muscles, desperate grip as she fights it, fights it… Tweaking her nipple again, he shushes her whimpers, “Just give me what I want, little Brat. Go on and come for me.”

 

To the credit of her own damnation, she does. His fingers move slick against her, thrumming out a perfect rhythm, too perfect, too perfect- And then she is gasping, eyes shut tight as he digs this out of her, forces it out of her body. She is electricity, she is elastic, she is… tired. She's tired. So very, very, tired. 

Not giving her a moment, he begins to kiss her shoulders again, “Very good. See? Things are so much better when you let me have my way. Imagine- This entire time you could have been my Countess.”

“I'm not sorry,” she speaks softly.

“No, I'd suppose not.” Ever amused, he keeps smiling that damn smile, moving beside her. 

Again, he kisses her, but this time he lays her down, presses her back. She involuntarily shuts her legs, but he slides his hand between them again, rubbing at her once more. Groaning, she feels her teeth hit his, clumsy as he tries to balance just right, but then his tongue is pushing into her mouth again, and it's as if he never stopped. 

Surprised, she arches up when she feels his finger try to press inside her, but he only shushes her, more slowly sliding it in.

“Nice and easy. There we go, good Brat,” he speaks the words directly into her mouth, slowly pressing the thin finger inside her. She whimpers, but doesn't try to fight it, letting him. Shuddering, she grips his shoulders, digging her fingers into him, balling his shirt in her fists. “Very good. Relax for me.” Gingerly, he begins to stroke at her in deep, long movements. Gasping, she arches down against him, into his touch. Despite it all, despite everything, she wants more depth, more touch… She wants the same blooming satisfaction, she wants- Just as unpredictably gently, he begins to slide a second finger in. A groan builds up from somewhere deep behind her spine, somewhere warm and wanting. His pace is steady, fervent as he continues to thrust into her, and then the groan is breaking into a moan, and she can feel him smile against her lips. “Go ahead, let me hear you.” 

 

Rubbing at her with his thumb, he presses his fingers inside her, groaning as she clutches at him, her tongue pressing up against his with her moan. She is so perfect undone, and he takes a moment to celebrate the victory. Perfect Violet, noble Violet, untouchable little Violet, climbing into his bed, into his arms. Breaking from the kiss, he pants against her mouth, kisses her neck, her shoulder, until he is catching her perfect breast between his lips again, feeling her press further into his touch, desperate, so close, so close, so-

And then she is whimpering as she pushes up against him, toes flexing as she gasps. He wants to kiss her open lips but instead flicks his tongue over her nipple, curious to see just how far he can push her. But then her fluttering hands are clinging to his hair, and he hasn't the self-control required to stay away. So he kisses her, kisses her open mouth, pressing her down further into the bed as she tries to swallow gasps of air. He pushes his tongue behind her teeth, wants to claim every inch of skin along her body, wants to make her irrefutable his. As she whines, he continues to thrust his fingers into her, wants her nice and docile for him, wants her to remember this as the time he managed to ruin her with his hands alone. It is only once he thinks she might suffocate that he finally pulls away, makes sure she is looking before popping the fingers into his mouth, making a show of slowly pulling them out again. Groaning tiredly, she turns her head away, sighing. 

“Now, little Brat,” leaning over her, he catches her jaw in his hand, forcing her eyes back to him, “don't get lazy on me.”

“I don't-”

Sternly, he shushes her, taking her hands and forcing them to his chest, “Come on. Earn your keep.” 

Sitting up, she begins to unbutton his collar with shaking hands, taking her time as he leans back, content to watch her. 

“I haven't-”

“Quiet.” 

Gingerly, she continues, hesitantly tugging the fabric out from his waist until it is all undone, revealing the stained white of his undershirt. His erection is prominently between them, tenting his pants uncomfortably, but he can wait. She looks at him, unsure, refusing to move forward unless expressly told to. 

“Go on,” stifling a smirk, he gestures towards his waist, almost groaning when her hands move over his belt, clicking it open. “Good. What a nice Brat,” he clicks his tongue teasingly, watching as she sets her jaw in anger. But then his belt is open and there is not much time left at all. She looks at him again in a way that can only be described as terrified. “Are you going to leave my shoes on?” he asks cooly, trying not to be offended as she scrambles at the moment of relief. It doesn't last, however, no matter how hard she tries to drag it on, and it is only another moment before she is finished. 

When she turns back to him, he is sitting up, ready to catch her thin neck in his hand. He doesn't hold her tight enough to hurt, just enough so that she knows he could. He feels her throat bob against his palm. 

 

“Keep going,” he nods curtly, and she complies, shaking hands tugging up his undershirt, exposing the bare skin of his chest. It is paler than she'd have thought, with a startling amount of scar tissue. Evidently he is not an easy man to kill. The hair on his chest is light, coarse, and she pretends not to notice as he switches hands long enough to tug his arms out. And then there is no prolonging it; there are the pants, and the stiffness she'd managed to avoid until now. She tries to look away, but finds she is quickly running out of things to look at, so instead she steels herself and undoes the top. He sighs at the relief of the zipper, rolling his fingers along her throat. 

“Good. Now,” he smiles, making sure she knows just how little of his patience is left. “Show me what you're good for.”

 

Her fingers tuck beneath the waist nervously as she slowly begins to pull. He can't tell if she's more afraid of hurting him or not hurting him, but by the time she has the fabric around his knees, she won't look at him.

“There we go,” tugging her close to himself, he practically purrs. “Lucky you, yes?”

“I don't-”

“Come on,” tightening his grip, he kisses her lips, “no need to be shy. Take a look.” 

She more or less retreats into her shoulders before hesitantly looking down at his fully erect cock. 

“Is- Is it supposed to-”

Before she can finish, he forces her down so that she is sitting as he kneels before her, “Lay down,” there is no question in the demand, and he trails his palm to her sternum long enough to shove her backwards against the mattress. For an instant, tears began to stand on her eyes again, but she manages to hold them back. Taking his time, he leans over her, dragging his fingernails along her flushed skin. “And now, if there are no more questions-”

“Will it hurt?” The words come out before she can stop them, rushed, afraid. 

Taken aback for just a moment, he pauses, but then smirking, leans down over her slowly until he is almost kissing her again, “It will ruin you in every way possible, but no; it will not hurt.”

Gingerly, he begins to stroke between her legs again, easing them apart as he kisses her, glad to feel her surrender beneath him. In all his fantasies, he never dreamed it would be this easy. 

As he sits up, he can see her fingers grip the blanket. “No,” taking her wrists, he presses her hands into his hair again. “I get to own all of you, little Brat.” She doesn't fight him, and carefully, he withdraws his touch, savoring the noise she makes in reply. 

 

At first it is very very bad and it takes everything in her not to crawl away. He presses the tip inside her and the sheer terror of the moment sits on her chest so that she cannot breath. Not noticing nor caring, he continues on, pressing himself further in. 

“Relax,” he groans, and she realizes just how tightly she has been gripping him. With a deep breath, she tries to unclench her muscles, but then he is pressing further in, and she is crying out.

“Olaf- You can't- I can't-”

“Quiet,” he shushes her again, “almost done.”

As he thrusts the rest of the way inside, she whines, eyes closed as she arches her back up, away from the pressure. He hadn't lied, but he hadn't really told the truth either; it wasn't pain, but it was a very strange discomfort. She could feel him hard inside her, filling her, and all she could think about was how much the sensation didn't belong. 

“See? Like I said,” sitting up, he lifted her hips with him, pulling her down the mattress, “Easy.” She meets his eyes, sees the glee in them, knows he does not care if she agrees, and so she nods. 

And then, he begins rocking into her, penetrating her again and again in shallow thrusts. She gasps, trying to keep her balance, to keep him happy, but none of it makes a difference anyway. As the movements deepen, he moans, leaning over her again so that his wrist is beside her face. She closes her eyes, doesn't want to look at him, but then he thrusts hard within her and she whimpers a sound that isn't exactly a complaint, but still resonates as fear. 

“Slow!” She manages to blurt the word out in a moment of panic, and he laughs.

“You want me to slow down, little Brat?” Despite the teasing, he complies, rolling his hips forward in deep strokes as she nods. Gasping then, she lets him press himself entirely inside her again, groaning as he does so. “There you are; good girl,” He grits his teeth together, “You're fine.” Nodding silently, as if to reassure herself, she listens to his labored breath as he moves inside her. Leaning in, he begins to kiss her throat. “So nice and wet for me, aren't you? You wanted this; you knew exactly what you were doing, little tease.” Shuddering, she holds tight, focuses on the tired pain in her calves. 

The stiffness of his arousal fills her, warm, unrelenting. She imagines it is not him, it is a person with no face who is kissing her neck, touching her chest. But when he groans, it is his voice, and again it is him between her legs, him fucking her gently. His fingers slide over her thighs, pulling her up, holding her to him. 

“God, you're so wet,” he whispers in her ear again, “Yes, nice girl Violet, always so nice, and, god, so tight.” She squeezes her eyes shut. “You've been waiting, haven't you? Greedy Brat, teasing me until I had no choice. You wanted this.” Humming, he slides his tongue over her skin, “Was it everything you dreamt? Do you like my cock, little Brat? You look so pretty taking it.” When she doesn't answer, he brings his hand back to her throat, tightens his grip, “I asked you a question, Brat. Do you like it when I fuck you?” 

“I don't know,” she answers honestly, scared of the trouble the lies could get her into. Eyes still squeezed shut, tears form along her eyelashes.

“You don't know,” he clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Well. We've plenty of time to make up your mind. Do you know why that is, Violet?” Silent, she waits for his answer. “I SAID, do you know WHY?”

“I don't! I don't know!” Crying openly now, she struggles to breathe.

“Because you are MINE.” Snarling, he draws his mouth right next to her ear. Turning her face away from his, she continues to cry, terrified. “Come on, lucky little orphan. Show me a smile.” Without waiting for her response, he kisses her neck again, drawing his fingers away as he does so. “Be a good brat and smile for me.” Steadily, he speeds up until she is gasping, clinging to the bed as he thrusts into her. Again his fingers wander between her legs, and criminally easily, he manages to coax an orgasm towards the surface again. Still tear-stained, she arches up, letting him press himself to her. “Much better. See? You can be a good brat, can't you?” 

Pointing her toes, she gives up, letting him hold her weight as she finishes against his fingers. Keeping the same quick pace, he digs his fingers into her, focused on his pleasure. It isn't long before he is groaning, spilling himself on the shirt beside her as he pants against her neck. 

Too afraid to move, she just lies beneath him, waiting.

 

Groaning, he pushes himself up, looks over her very naked form. “Still cold, Brat?” he jokes, sighing as he lays on his back. 

Self-conscious, she crosses her arm over herself, tucks her knees together, “I… I should go to my own room.” She moves to stand, but then he catches her wrist, forcing her back down. 

“Why bother? You're too pretty to go just yet. Besides, I might want a midnight snack.” Pulling the covers back, he gestures to the bed. 

There is a hesitation as she looks between him and the mattress, “I'm… going to take a shower first.”

“Whatever you need, your majesty.” Reclining, he stretches an arm behind his head, closing his eyes, unable to believe how spectacularly this day is going. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for noncon, guns, bondage, and manipulation

“Thought you'd actually get away, didn't you?” He smirked, tearing off a piece of bread with his teeth as he shoved her forward. “Thought you were clever?” 

Hitting the bed, Violet struggled to sit up, pulled her knees onto the dirty mattress as she looked down at her hands. “You can put that down now,” she grit her teeth. 

“I don't think I will,” teasingly, he pressed the muzzle of the gun to the back of her head, spitting crumbs as he spoke. “I've always thought you were smarter than you looked, but this? This was just stupid.”

“It's not what it looked like,” frantic, she tried to think. 

“Really? Because it looks like you went snooping and decided you were big enough to take my things and make a run for it. Hasn't anyone ever told you that stealing is wrong?” He clucked his tongue disapprovingly. 

“If you'd just let me out-”

“You'd do what?” He pulled the gun away for just a moment as he gestured wildly, “Swim to shore? What shore, Orphan? Who on this goddamn ship will help you?”

“There are always noble people-”

“And there are always villains,” pointing the gun at her again, he sneered, ripping off another piece of bread. “What did you think you were you going to do, Violet? Shoot me? And no one would notice?”

“I'm sorry, okay?” she lied. 

“Not yet, you're not,” tossing the bread onto the bed beside her, he opened his belt.

“Don't you fucking touch me!” she pulled away, desperate to hide her terror. 

“Violet. How many times are we going to have this conversation?” leaning in, he gripped her chin. “I can do whatever I want to you. Now. Arms out.” When she didn't comply, he slid the gun into the back of his pants, grabbing her wrists, “I SAID, arms out!” Tugging his belt off, he wrapped it quick around her wrists several times before clasping it shut on the last notch. Disgusted, she pulled her hands away violently once he finished, but he only laughed. Walking slowly over to one of his suitcases, he threw it open, grabbing a few more belts. “Now cross your ankles.” 

Reticent, she silently regarded him until he snatched at her leg.

“I can do it myself!” Hiding her fear behind anger, she pulled her knees in. Grabbing her anyway, he wrapped another belt around her ankles, tying them together. 

“Elbows at your side.”

“I'm already-”

 

Walking behind her, he reached around her, pinning her arms to her sides with another belt, “At your side!” Climbing around her into the bed, he took his time closing it beneath her chest. Ever brave, she watched him stoically. “Maybe this will keep you in place, Brat. I'd like to see you escape like this.” Turning around, he snatched his bread up again. Though he couldn't see her, he very clearly heard the scoff she gave in reply.

“What was that?” facing her again, he fixed his face into one of silent warning. 

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she avoided his gaze nonchalantly, tucking her hands beneath her knees. 

“If you think I am going to allow you to disrespect me-”

“I didn't say anything.”

Humming low, he regarded her, “Maybe a gag is in order until you feel more talkative?”

“I just think it's funny that you're so scared of me.” 

The heat that rose in his body was not a friendly one. “What was that, Brat?”

“Why else go through all this trouble?” She nodded at her bonds.

“To teach you a lesson.”

“What lesson?”

“That I can make things extremely unpleasant for you.”

“Things are already unpleasant for me.”

“They can always get worse.”

“I'm sure, but of all the choices, tying me up?” Smirking, she leaned in, ‘You're scared, Olaf.”

With a scoff, he smiled, “You think you scare me? Please, Orphan. I know mommy and daddy always went out of their way to convince you you're special, but that is RICH, even for a snotty heiress.”

“And what? You aren't tough enough to take me? Need to literally tie me down because you're too scared to fight?”

“There's a difference between not being able to and not being bothered to, Orphan.” 

“You're scared of me.” 

“Oh, yes? I'm the one who's scared?” Turning sharply, he grabbed her by the hair, enjoying the sound she made as she cried out. “What are you going to do, Violet? What are you going to do?”

“I TOLD you, don't fucking TOUCH ME!” All at once, he was staring at the shaking barrel of a gun. Trembling, she held it to his chin. Blindsided, he patted his back, actually smiled when he couldn't feel it. 

 

“You clever little bitch,” he smiled, voice dropping into his chest. “What? Are you going to shoot me?” 

“Maybe I will,” if she could, she would have shoved it against his throat. 

“Go on, then. Shoot,” he purred. 

“I will,” she spoke, more tremble than person, “so you better untie me!”

“You won't do it, Orphan. You've too much of those simpering idiots in your head.”

“Anyone would understand. There's no reason for me not to!”

“Then do it,” leaning in, he gripped the barrel of the gun in his hand, tilted it up under his chin. “Shoot me, Violet.”

“I will!” The tears came without her permission, shaking hands useless to help. “Now untie me!”

“Here, let me help. No excuses.” Steadying the shaking barrel, he opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out. Before she could process what was happening, he slid the barrel into his mouth, smiling. 

“What the fuck are you-” her voice shook, tears still streaming down her face. 

Slowly, he closed his lips, slid his mouth further down the barrel. Placing a hand on her knee, he moaned, a fake, outlandish sound. 

“I swear, I'll…” blinking away the tears, she watched him pull back, lips curling as he groaned again, fingers pushing against her thigh. When she looked into his eyes, it felt exactly as one might imagine looking into a dark ice cavern would. “I'll… I'll do it…” Slowly, not looking away, he moved further down until she was certain he would suffocate. Another moment later, she was relieved to realize the burning in her chest was from the breath she had been holding. “I…” 

Holding her knees, he shut his eyes slowly, moaning deeply, digging his nails into her legs. 

“Stop it!” Frantic, she heard the hiccup in her voice, tears blinding her. It was only then that she saw the very real bulge between his legs as his erection swelled, tenting his pants. “Listen to me! I am-” 

“Out of your league; it's okay.” Having released the barrel with a suctioned pop, he smirked. 

“You don't know the first thing about me.” She wished desperately that she could wipe the tears away. 

“I know enough,” tilting the gun up again with an index finger, he ran his tongue along it. “I know you like playing with toys meant for the grownups.” Bobbing his head down over the muzzle, he groaned again, taking a moment before pulling back, “I know you're not as stupid as you act. And, maybe most importantly,” pressing the gun to his chest, he leaned in, kissed her cheek, “I know how to get you wet.” With a sharp tug, he pulled the gun from her hands. Shaking, she closed her hands into fists, pressing then to her eyes, furiously wiping at the tears.

 

“Fuck you! Fuck you!” Wailing, she tried to hit at him. 

“Settle down; you're making a fool of yourself.” Standing up, he easily evaded her punches. Still weeping, she clutched at her clothes, gasping for air. “Why are you fucking crying? Why are you crying?” Arms open in exasperation, he looked down at her. “You're the one who keeps causing problems!” 

“I hate you!” Spitting the words, she began to cough, struggling to breathe. 

“Christ, just- Calm down okay? Or I will shoot you!” 

“Let me go!” 

“No!” He raised the gun as if to hit her, but even the flinch she reflexively gave did little to satisfy him. “Damnit, Violet,” muttering quietly, he gripped her chin, forced her to look at him. 

She wasn't a particularly attractive crier, but even with red, stained cheeks, she was a damn pretty little thing. When he kissed her, she tasted like salt, his arousal straining at the sensation. “Cry all you want, Orphan, just keep it quiet,” pressing the gun to her throat, he forced his tongue into her mouth. Crying harder, she almost bit him. “What's the matter, pretty girl? Don't like it when other people play with your toys?” Rough, he shoved the muzzle against her jugular. 

“You can't kill me! You need me! You-”

“I don't NEED you, Orphan. I want you. And I always get what I want.” Shoving her down, he climbed over her, still holding the gun to her throat. Trying to kick at him, she uselessly smacked his legs with her calves. 

 

“Now, now, behave yourself,” when he smiled, it was all teeth. She found it hard to believe he didn't have more teeth than the average person. “I thought you liked playing with guns,” leaning over her, he kissed her, pressing the muzzle to her stomach. 

“Fuck you! If you're trying to scare me, it's not working! You won't kill me!” 

“No, but I will hurt you.” Slow, he licked along her throat. “That's only if you make me, though. Does our deal still stand? Are you going to fight me, Orphan?”

Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenched her teeth, wished she could stop crying; it was pathetic, “The deal stands.”

“Well then,” smiling wickedly, he dragged the barrel down her stomach, used the cold metal to pry her legs open. “Let's see if we can't set you right?”

“Please, Olaf- You can have the money-”

“No no no, Violet. Did you really think I'd take kindly to having a gun pointed at me?” His voice was gravelly, unkind as he tugged her panties down her thighs. 

 

Flat on her back, she didn't open her eyes as he forced her feet up, bending her knees apart. 

“Cheer up, Orphan,” he kissed her throat again, unbuttoning the top of the dress shirt he has given her to wear. “I'm not doing anything I wouldn't want.” 

“Olaf, please-”

“Hush. What kind of guardian would I be if I never punished you?”

“I don't need a guardian, but it wouldn't ever be you!” 

“Funny, because right now it looks like you could use one.” 

She cried out, a terrified gasp, as he pressed the cold metal between her legs, “Please! I'm no good to you dead! I-” and then she was shrieking as he pushed the muzzle inside her. 

“Then don't make me do anything that I'll regret.” Slowly, he pumped the barrel in and out of her, gradually building up depth. The hard metal felt like a tumor within her, metastatic and volatile. Shaking silently, she clutched her clothes, prayed it would be over soon.

 

As much as he was enchanted by the sight of her spread legs, Olaf kept finding himself drawn back to her pinched face. He liked her scared; she drew in, made herself smaller. Leaning down, he rested his cheek against her knee. 

“See? Even the most wile of brats can be tamed with a firm hand.” 

Opening her eyes, she looked at him with unadulterated contempt, “Fuck you.” Despite the tremble of her lip, she managed some conviction.

“I insist,” he smirked, amused at her tenacity. Looking away from her face, he watched his hand work the gun, wondered how much more of this he could take. “Tell me, Violet,” still staring down, he mustered boredom in his voice, “am I really so terrible that you'd rather this to letting me fuck you myself?” Pride rose in his chest as she turned her face away from him, tears staining the pillow beneath her. 

“I… You won't kill me.”

“I might,” he shrugged, still trying to look uninterested despite the raging lust in his blood. 

“You agreed-”

“As did you. Whatever I want. And right now, I might want to kill you. Awful oversight on your part, really.”

“You won't,” he could feel her sharp stare, but her voice was less certain now. 

“Not so long as there is something else I want more.” 

“Which is?”

 

“I want you to cum for me again, little Orphan,” he smiled as a snake might. 

“Why do you care?” She couldn't decide if it was better or worse when he looked at her. 

He shrugged again, “Because. Does it matter?” 

“It does to me.”

“Well I don't give a damn.” Sitting up, he began to rub her clit in circles with his thumb. Gasping, she fought to keep her hips firmly planted against the bed, not wanting to knock the gun. “Isn't that better, Brat?” he hissed, smiling. “Aren't I a kind guardian?” 

“You aren't-”

“I hate to make the point again, but if you had only agreed to be my wife, it would have made all this so much more enjoyable for you.” Sighing, he watched his hands work, masturbating her. “Would have saved us both a lot of time.” Whining, she strained at the ties around her wrists. “Yes?” he smirked, “you like that?” Straightening up, he leered down over her, mimicking her facial expressions. “Oh, yes… Very good.” 

 

“Please,” her voice strained, weak. Damn girl still hadn't given up. She was close to breaking, though. The sound of her whimpers strained inside his belly. If he wasn't already aroused, he'd have been lost at that. Unwilling to prolong his own satiation any longer, he pulled the barrel from her slowly. Making sure she was looking, he raised it to his lips again, putting his talents back to use as he pushed it far into his mouth. Silent, she held his gaze, lips parted as she breathed heavily. And then he pulled the trigger. 

 

With a scream, she tried to sit up, hair falling over her face, blurring her vision. The blood in her head pounded, terror racing through her as he laughed. 

“Did you think I'd leave a loaded gun where you could reach it?” Teasingly, he ran his tongue over it one last time before tossing it aside. Closing her eyes, she turned away, tears silently falling. “Oh, come on,” still laughing, he kissed her neck before beginning to tug his clothes off. “Silly girl, were you worried I'd leave you? No, even I couldn't be so cruel as to leave you so unsatisfied.” 

“You- You didn't-” Shaking silently, she curled her body into a question mark. 

“Shh, little Brat,” shushing her, he pressed her shoulder until she was on her back once more. “Don't tell me you've lost your sense of humor?” Stroking his erection, he knelt before her, lifting her legs up. 

“Why are you doing this?” her voice cracked around the question. 

“Because, darling,” reaching forward, he stroked her cheek, “you said ‘anything.” 

 

Situating her knees on either side of his head, he began to rub her clit again, quickly. With a cry, she arched up against the bed and he mourned the fact that he hadn't thought to tie her up naked. As it was, the shirt opened to just below her breasts, where the belt caught it. The white of her bra teased him, thin cotton letting him catch the barest glimpse of the small peaks of her nipples. Watching her heaving chest, he leaned down, kissed her inner knee. 

“So pretty, little Brat.” His voice was heavy with arousal, patience straining as he pushed a finger inside her. Her whimpers only served to further intoxicated him, leave him hungry for more. “Open your eyes. I'm not going to hurt you. Not yet.”

Clearly more terrified of what he might do than of what he was doing, she complied, looking at him with those damningly long lashes. 

“Good girl,” he kissed her leg again as he pumped his fingers inside her. “Good little Orphan. So pretty.” When he brushed his thumb over her clit, she groaned again, averting her eyes. “My god, can you feel how wet you are? You love being mine, Brat. You knew this was a trap, didn't you? But you came onboard anyway, hoping you might be so lucky as to be given a second chance at being mine. Good news, little Brat; I am generous, and you belong to ME.” 

“You're a liar,” she whimpered, breath heaving in her chest.

“Am I? Deep down, you know it's true. Tell me, Violet; why did you cross your legs when I tied them? Did you want me to have an easier time fucking you?”

“You told me to,” she spit, deliciously close to breaking.

“Did I? Think hard, Brat. Did I really, or were you just eager to serve me?”

“I-” he saw her hesitate, smirked as he interrupted her with a thrust. 

“Good little Brat, so eager to please. Wants the bad man to make her cum.” Speeding up, he was pleased to watch her face contort from fear to desperation. “You ran away just to be punished, didn't you? DIDN'T YOU?”

“No!” she cried, gasping. 

“Don't lie to me, little slut!”

“I didn't!”

“You wanted me to tie you up and fuck you senseless!”

“I-”

“You wanted to ride cock!”

“You-”

“You wanted this!”

“No!” she cried again, pushing her hips down against him. 

“Should I let you finish? Would you like that?” 

“Olaf-” she grit her teeth. 

“That's it, little girl. Give in. You know you want to. Just give up; it's easy. Go on and see how it feels,” smirking, he kissed her leg. Responding to his touch, she tightened her thighs against him.

“I can't-”

“Just a small surrender. Momentary submission. Can you do that, Orphan? Can you relax for me? No one's around to know.” To his infinite delight, she slowly relaxed her muscles, no longer fighting against her bonds. With a whimper, she let her head fall to the side, body pliable in his hands. “What a good girl,” he crooned, speeding up the pulse of his movements. “See? I can give you what you want if you only let me. Do you want me to let you cum, Orphan?” 

“Yes,” she whimpered, the word forcing itself from her throat. 

“Good. Go on and cum around my fingers, Brat. Go on and give me a reason to keep you.” 

With a few more strokes, she was gasping, open lips showing off her pink tongue as she clutched at her shirt. Cheek pressed to the pillow, she groaned, an incredible blush spreading from her nose to her chest. Lifting her at the hips, he aligned himself before finally,  _ finally _ , penetrating her. Eyes opening again, she held his gaze, face still stained by tear tracks as she groaned, legs shaking against him.

 

Again, he gave her no warning before entering her. With a shudder, she tried to keep her body from re-tensing as she felt him inside her, hard and thick. Legs still loped over his shoulders, there was nothing she could do but lay there, let him sheath himself inside her and hope it wouldn't hurt more than it had to. 

“Very good. I love a brat who knows her place,” he groaned, thrusting inside her. Closing her eyes again, she tried not to think about the leather biting into her skin, but then he was forcing her knees apart, pulling her legs over his shoulders. 

“Come here, little girl. I want to feel you.” Grabbing the belt around her elbows, he quickly undid the clasp before lifting her roughly by the biceps, forcing her wrists behind his neck so that she was staring straight at him. “Much better,” he growled, bucking up into her. With each thrust, she gasped, unable to catch her breath as he scowled, pressed himself inside her. His fingers dug into her waist, bounced her up and down as she unwillingly clung to him, bonds keeping her from moving away. “Give us a kiss, Brat,” he spat, nails pressing into her skin. Without waiting for her to take any initiative, he kissed her, tongue filling her mouth. Whining as he bucked into her, she squeezed her eyes shut, decided not to make another sound. She was a corpse. She was empty. There was nothing here that he could take. Even still, the sounds of his grunts filled her head, infested her emptiness. 

 

“Good girl,” he moaned, kissing her mouth. She was so soft, so small as he shoved his cock inside her. Silent, she moved to his rhythm, not complaining but still not giving him what he wanted. “Go on and give us a moan, Orphan. Don't pretend this isn't fun.” 

Before she could reply, he was kissing her again. Anything she needed to say could be done with his tongue in her mouth. He felt her knees pull up, calves pressing to his back. Giving a particularly vicious thrust, he managed to crack a whine out of her. “Give me what I want, Brat,” he groaned into her open mouth. “Come on. Let me hear you. Let me hear you, Brat. I know you have a lot to say. Say it for me.” 

Fingers flexing and recurling, she leaned her forehead against his shoulder, groaning low. Quick, he tangled his hand on her hair, forced her head back again. Crying out, she drew her shoulders up, flinching away. “Give me what I want,” he hissed, bored with her misbehaving.

 

Gasping open-mouthed, she clenched her eyes shut, wished he would stop talking. It was so much easier when he wasn't talking, when he could be someone else and she could be someone else. Because he wasn't wrong; as much as she hated herself for it, he wasn't wrong. There was something indescribable about the way he nestled between her legs, hips fit snugly to hips. If she could, she would have stopped all nerves beneath her neck, hated the way her body responded to him. Maybe if she closed her eyes, she could forget everything that wasn't this moment; the terror, the bite of the belts, the pain. His beard chafed her skin as he continued to kiss her, and she could almost swear she could taste gunmetal on his tongue. 

Whining, she felt her legs shake, bones collapsing as another orgasm unfolded itself within her belly. Pulling back from his kiss, she groaned, the sound morphing into a high moan. 

 

“Good girl,” he purred, pleased as she held onto him with her thighs, gasping. “Good Brat.” Her moans became hiccuped as he sped up his strokes, her breasts bouncing delightfully against his chest. “Cum for me, Brat. Give it up to me.” 

Groaning, she rested her forehead to his neck, unable to do anything but comply, teeth pressing to his throat. All at once he became uncomfortably aware of the limitations of the position as he felt his own climax coming. 

“Fuck, Orphan, do that again,” he groaned, teeth clenched. 

“What?”

Grabbing her by the back of the head, he held her tight against himself, “Bite me, bitch! Let me feel you, Violet! Take what you want! Eat your fucking heart out!” 

 

Terrified and horribly confused, she pressed her teeth to his neck, ready to give him whatever he wanted at this point. Moaning loudly, he bucked quick against her, breath turning to heavy gasps between groans. Unsure what else she was supposed to do, she simply held on, lips closing over her teeth as he forced her through another orgasm. Sucking in through her teeth, she tried to even her breath, the salty taste of his sweat heavy on her tongue. 

With a groan, he gripped her, laying her flat on her back as he pulled out, rapidly stroking himself. Unable to pull away, she lay beneath him, watched his naked frame rock above her as he thrust into his fist, face contorted into something similar to anger. After an eternity, he finished, spilling himself on her lower belly. 

 

Sighing, he rested his head against her chest, panting. She remained still, silent as he took her hands from behind his neck, slipped out from between her legs. With a groan, he lay his head back down on her chest, closing his eyes. 

“I- Can you untie me now?” her voice sounded raw, pained.

“Not yet,” he sighed. 

“Can I at least wash up?”

“What's the hurry?” he grumbled, exhausted. The girl had no consideration for how hard he worked. 

“My arms are tired.” 

Looking up, he realized her arms were braced above her head. “Well put them down.”

“Where?” 

“Do I look like I care?” grumbling, he lay down again, tugging her arms down with him. “Now, I'm trusting you not to strangle me,” he muttered, letting her hands rest just above his shoulders. Silent once more, she didn't move, only the beat of her heart betraying her. 


	3. Chapter 3

“If you’d just let me go get my things-”

“If I knew you’d be this high maintenance, I would have thought twice,” covering his eyes with his arm, Olaf groans, not sitting up from where he lays on the bed. “Of course, you always were a greedy lot.”

“You said it yourself! Where can I possibly go?” Hoping for some sort of leniency, she gives over all pretense of not begging. “Think about it; there’s nowhere for me to run, is there? Just let me pack a bag, and I won’t bother you half as much. Or, better yet,” she holds out her hands, as if the thought had just occurred to her, “let me stay in my room!” 

Slow, he lifts his arm off his eyes, staring at her contemptuously. “Your room?”

“Yes! I mean, yes,” quick, she fixes her tone to not seem so eager. “I’ll be just as trapped and you won’t have to deal with me. Why not makes things easier for yourself?”

“Why indeed.” With a groan, he sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Tell me, Violet. How long do you think I am going to let you live?”

“I…” pausing, she frantically tries to recalculate, backtracking, “I only meant-”

“How long?”

“Not long,” tense with the truth, she squeezes her lips shut, hoping she still might somehow prevent herself from making the situation any worse. 

“Then I would suggest you not waste any more time being an idiot.”

“I’m only trying to help-”

“Seriously. Have you always been so incredibly thick, or are you just trying to impress me?”

“I want my own clothes,” crossing her arms, she stands up straight, bare feet cold on the floor. There is a moment, and then he laughs.

“Clothes? You’re still worried about your clothes?” he snorts, laying back again. 

“And? Is it so unreasonable?” Irritated, she tugs at the sleeve of the shirt he has given her, hates how childish she must look in the oversized garment. 

“I’ll tell you what, brat,” still chuckling, he looks at her, brushes the hair back from his forehead. “I’ll make you a deal.”

“I’m not sure I like your deals.”

“I’m not sure you have any other option.”

“Fine,” pursing her lips, she imagines kicking his shin. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” He hums as he stares at the ceiling, pretends he is lost in thought. The theatricality of it all burns inside her. “Teach me to build a pipe bomb?”

“No.”

“Flamethrower?”

“No!”

“Let me tie your hands behind your back and fuck you until you cry?”

 

He smiles as she grits her teeth. She wants to say no so badly, but loopholes are loopholes, and even if she refuses, all that means is she doesn’t get whatever it is she’s pining after. He still gets his in the end. 

“That’s really what you’re choosing?”

“When’s the last time you wore something of your own that wasn’t washed in my sink?” Cocking his eyebrow, he holds back a smile. Not yet.

“Fine. Deal.” 

“Excellent.” Standing so quick his vision goes blurry for a moment, he grabs her roughly by the collar, determined not to make the same mistake twice.

“I can do that!” she snaps, yanking the shirt from his fingers as she angrily unbuttons it. 

“So nice and eager.” He smiles now, doesn’t try to hide the unabashed glee as her fingers trip, stumbling. There is no bra under the starched shirt, and so he gives himself a moment to stare at her naked chest as it is unveiled unceremoniously. “Very good,” he pinches her cheek. “Now put this up,” Rough, he tugs her hair. She flinches but doesn’t yell. A pity. 

Still deliciously indignant, she pulls her hair into a ponytail. 

“Braid it,” he unclasps his belt. “I want to have something to hold on to.”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” she growls, tugging the ribbon out.

“Yes, and you’re so very, very lucky you’re pretty,” he cups her face in both hands, “because that brain has gotten you nowhere.”

Fuming, she pulls the shirt off her shoulders and lets it fall to the floor, never breaking eye contact. He imagines her face flushed, open mouth and lidded eyes, begging, and he smiles again. 

“Is this what it takes for you to feel like a man?” she spits, tugging her underwear off, finally wonderfully naked before him. 

Shrugging, he slowly circles behind her, “Keep talking, brat. I know you like it rough.” 

 

Harsh, he grabs her arms, pulling them up and together behind her. This time she does cry out, stumbles at the sudden pain. Tugging off his belt, he loops it around her wrists until he is satisfied, closes it shut tight, hopes it will leave marks. “You know,” he keeps his voice low, yanks her back so that he can whisper in her ear, “if you’d only ask, I’d promise not to tell.”

“Ask?” she tries to turn her head towards him. He laughs.

“You’re not fooling me. Always acting up, always needing to be punished,” slow, he clicks his tongue. “You want it to hurt, don’t you?” 

“Do whatever the hell you’re going to do, just don’t talk to me.” Turning her face away, she stares ahead. The little show is absolutely hilarious. 

Chuckling, he shoves her forward, lets her fall face-first onto the bed. “You don’t like hearing my voice? You don’t want me telling you how nice and tight you are, how good your pussy feels when I'm fucking you?” Opening his shirt, he lets it fall neglected to the side. “You don’t want me telling you how pretty you are, those little tits of yours just begging me to jack off onto them?” Stepping out of his shoes, he tugs off his socks, his pants, taking his time to enjoy the slight tremble of her body. He doubts she even knows he can see it.

“Fuck you,” she finally spits, obstinate to the last. 

Leaning over her back, he slides two fingers against her, spreading her, “When are you going to learn that isn’t a threat?” 

 

Grabbing her beneath her hips, he hoists her up onto the bed, pulling her to her knees before lifting her arms behind her, shoving her face down against the mattress again.

“Stay just like that,” he mutters. She can hear the breaking restraint in his voice. “Go on and behave for me. I promise to fuck you like the brat you are either way.” 

She stares at the taupe color of the wall, worries that her teeth will crack with the pressure of her jaw. “How kind.”

“Yes, I am always thinking of you and your needs, aren’t I?” None too gently, he works a finger inside her. “As far as guardians go, I’ve done an excellent job. Haven’t died, at any rate. Strange how you seem so cursed with that.”

“It’s always been your fucking fault,” she spits, doesn’t know why she bothers to say it. He’s only trying to get a rise out of her and it’s working. 

“Is everything okay, Orphan? You don’t feel as excited as usual.” He pumps the finger inside her a few more times.

“Go to hell,” she strains, closes her eyes.

“Now, now. I’m only trying to look after you. Far be it from me to be neglectful,” pulling his hand away, he grips her thighs, and just when she has made up her mind to be perfectly silent, his tongue presses against her. With a gasp, she feels her entire body shake, hands flexing into fists. “Much better,” he murmurs, pressing his tongue inside her. Quick, she turns her face against the blanket, not caring that she can’t breathe so long as he doesn’t hear the sound she makes as he pulls at her clit with his lips, slow and demanding. His nails dig into her legs, hands stiff as iron as he holds her in place, flicks his tongue over her, his mouth all warm wetness and everything she does not want. Squeezing her eyes, she focuses on the building ache in her lungs, the desperation for cool air. She is freezing, she tells herself. She is outside in ice and snow. She is numb with frostbite. There is no feeling anywhere, no warmth left to her blood. She imagines her veins as icicles, envisions the frost spreading over her wrists, the blue becoming bluer, then white, little patterns of fractals. Fractals. She tries to remember what she knows about fractals. Self-repeating. Euclidean. The affine self-similar. She tries to taste the words, imagines her hand writing them out on a frosted window. Focus on fractals. 

With all the pain of a raw skinned knee, she gasps for air, the sound rough and decidedly unwanted as it curls into a groan. Sounds, shepard’s tones- she quickly tries to regain her focus, but it is too late, and the only thing that is is the shuddering of her legs as she cums, lets him make her cum. 

Not needing to see his face to know he is proud, she feels the gloat in him as he slides his finger back inside her.

“Much better.” He croons. “See? I am quite adept at taking care of little orphan brats.” More easily than it ought to be, he slides a second finger in, pumping in and out of her. She tries to turn her face down again but he catches her braid, tugs her face to the side. “No no,” he smirks. “I want to watch.” 

“Of course you do,” she offers all the malice she can. 

“That's a good girl.” He pets her head. Slowly, languishing, he rubs his erection against her. “Good little brat.” She isn't going to cry, she decides. She isn't going to give him that. “Yes, you like that, don't you?”

“Leave me alone.” She isn't going to cry. She isn't. She isn't. 

“Violet,” his tone is piercingly saturated with fake pity, “I know all your other guardians have abandoned you, but I promise you, I am here to stay.”

“You aren't my guardian!”

“Aren't I?” 

“Fuck you!” 

 

Grabbing her wrists, he yanks them upwards, contentment roaring in him when she screams. 

“Come again?” Faster, he pumps his fingers into her, glad when she gasps and involuntarily kicks.

“I said-” her voice dies with another swift tug of her arms, tears standing in the corners of her eyes. “Fuck-” 

With a sharp thrust, he interrupts her imminent mistake. Crying out, she gasps open-mouthed against the bed. 

“Face it, Orphan. I'm the best guardian you've ever had. Did anyone else take the time to appreciate how nice you look on your knees? Anyone else get you dripping wet for them?”

“You're deranged,” she growls the words between her teeth, groaning. 

“Am I? Or do you just crave a firm hand of discipline? Deep down, every brat wants someone to set the rules for them. Now cum for me.” Not giving her any other option, he begins to rub her clit in tight circles. Gasping, she arches away from him, but he is quicker, and forces her back into place. Hand flat on her back, he thrums the pads of his fingers against her, watches her face contort from tense fear as he overwhelms her. “Do as I tell you, Orphan.” His cock strains at the sight of her pink lips, shining with saliva. He decides he is going to fuck that pretty mouth sometime. Not now, but sometime. Grasping her braid, he tugs her head back, enjoys the strain of her neck as she winces.

Gasping, she moans, tongue pressing between her teeth as she pants, tries to catch her breath.“Much better,” smiling, he thrusts roughly, glad when her voice breaks, cracking with each movement. “Now, let's try again. I'm a good guardian, aren't I, Violet?”

“You're-” she gasps as he forces her head up. “You're very good, so good!”

“You appreciate me?”

“Yes!”

“You like it when I make you cum?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, yes!” The sound is shrill, desperate as he wraps his grip tighter. 

“Good little Brat. See? All you need is a little guidance.” Pulling his fingers from her, he presses them into her mouth, wipes them clean on her tongue. “Good little girls know their place. Now, show me how grateful you are.” 

Slow, savoring the warm pressure, he presses inside her, holding her face down against the bed. Groaning, she flexes her fingers into fists, jaw set hard. With a grunt, he begins to thrust rhythmically, letting his hips slam against her. 

 

She bites down on her lip. She will not cry. She will not cry. He moves in and out quickly, hitting something deep inside her. She is empty. She is a cavern, buried deep within the ground, untouched. 

“You've been spoiled, Orphan,” he yanks her hair back. “Some thanks might be in order for all the good I'm doing you.” 

“You-” her words become a shout as he twists her braid in his hand. 

“Try again.” 

“Thank you! Thank you,” her words are shrieks, terrified.

“Good girl.” Dropping her hair, he lets her collapse against the bed. “Are you ready to behave now?”

Weakly, she nods. As he thrusts in and out, she whimpers, letting the sound become a low groan. Slowing his strokes, he takes his time, wants to make this last. 

 

“I've always thought a well-behaved brat was a pretty sight. Don't you think so?” he tugs her braid again, once, lightly. 

“Yes,” she agrees, hopes her compliance will stop the pain.

“Right where you belong, around my cock. Isn't that right?” All he has to do is touch her wrists and she's nodding emphatically.

“Yes! Yes, I'm happy, I-” she bites her tongue, focuses on the sensation. 

“I always knew it. Your parents would never have let you, of course.” Almost tenderly, he pushes his fingers against the back of her neck. “It's a good thing you're in my care now, isn't it?” 

 

She is crying now, and there is nothing she can do about it. She wonders if she can drown in her tears, how long it would take for him to notice, and the bile in her throat rises. 

Grunting, he begins to speed up again, hitting her fast and hard, “I said ISN'T IT?” 

“Yes,” she whimpers, knowing the words of a ghost never damned anyone but the living. There is nothing that can be done to her now. She is untouchable. 

“What would they think of you, huh? You little slut, begging for someone to fuck you. Begging for  _ me  _ to fuck you.”

Closing her eyes, she tries to find where her breath has gone. 

“God, what if they could see their little Violet, bent over for me,” holding her stiff by the hips, he growls, low in his throat. “What would they say? Wouldn't even look you in the eyes, would they?”

The wall becomes a swimming thing. If she held her breath, would she pass out or suffocate? “Please, just-” she whispers the words, unable to afford them any emotion. 

Slowing his strokes, he grunts. “God. Fuck, Orphan, you're so tight; I'm going to cum inside you.”

“Don't!” She tries to sit up, but he shoves her back down. 

“I can't help it, you're so nice and wet for me. You want it; I can feel it.”

“Don't! Please!” Frantic, she tries to move away, but only succeeds in hitting her chin on the bed. 

“I don't know; I'm so close, and you would look so nice-”

“You're my guardian!”  In a desperate bid, she tries to appease him. “My guardian! My good, good guardian! Don't do it!”

“Am I a good guardian?”

“The best! So good! So kind!”

“A good father?”

She hesitates, but he presses her down again, moaning.

“A great father.” The tears will leave permanent tracks on her face, she is certain of it. 

“The best?” There is a devouring glee in his voice. She feels him thick inside her, imagines dying. 

“Olaf-” 

“ _ The best _ ?” Smacking against her hard, he grips her throat. 

“The best.” Certain that her future is all one singularity, she doesn't fight her disgust, finally considers giving up. 

“Better than that miserable excuse of a father you had?”

“Stop!” Her body is all one splinter, her entire self punctured as she weeps.

“Better than that weak fucking parody of a man?” Yanking her wrists up, he twists her arms. She screams but he doesn't let go. “Say I'm better than Bertrand! Say it!”

“Please don't do this, Olaf!”

“SAY IT!” Lifting her by the elbow, he pulls her almost off the bed. 

“Better! Much better!” Her tongue is acid. She half expects to spit out her own teeth.

“I'm your fucking daddy now! We all know you want one, Orphan.” Relentless, he pounds into her, fingers bruising her skin. 

“Olaf, please,” she closes her eyes, wants to leave her body but doesn't want to see this weakness. 

“Is that any way to address your father?” 

“Olaf-”

“God, I'm so close, I'm going to cum-”

“Please, daddy!” the word stings like acid on her tongue. 

“Good girl,” he grunts. Rocking quick, he lets go of her, reaches between her legs to stroke her clit. And then she is a stuttering, trembling thing again, feet curling up. “I'm always good to you, aren't I, brat?”

 

“Yes, daddy,” There is the dark stain of her tears beneath her face. 

“This is exactly what you deserve, exactly where you belong. Don't you think so, Violet?”

She doesn't answer, lips pursed in a tight line. 

“Thank me for putting you in your place,” he gasps, desperately holding onto this bliss. 

“Thank you,” she shivers, nearing her next climax. 

“Try that again!” He slaps her ass roughly, hopes it will leave a mark. 

She shrieks, jumping, “Thank you, daddy!” 

He actually is painfully close now, riding the adrenaline high of seeing how this will end. 

“If you really don't want me to cum inside you, go ahead and beg. See if your daddy is feeling generous.” 

Shuddering, she tenses her shoulders, all her body one tight muscle. He thinks she might finally break. 

“Please, daddy,” tears are still streaming down her face as she speaks between his strokes. 

“Are you sure? Because you don't sound certain at all.”

“Please! Please don't, Ola- daddy! Please,” her voice strains on each word. 

“If you insist, Orphan. But only because you asked so nicely.” Pulling out, he pumps his cock a few times before spilling himself onto her back with a groan. 

She shudders and sighs, finally relaxing.

“Cutting it close there, weren't you?” Humming, he flips her onto her back to better see her face. “I believe thanks are in order.” 

“Thank you,” she avoids his eyes, voice shaking. 

“Come on, now.” Pinching her cheeks between his fingers, he clicks his tongue. 

“Thank you, daddy.” Her shoulders draw up, entire body drained. 

“Much better, little brat.” Easily, he slides his fingers back inside her. Groaning, she lets her hips roll down towards his hand. “It's amazing what you'll do for some cock, isn't it, whore?” Leaning over her body, he licks along her throat, lets the taste of salt carry over his tongue as she shivers. 

Pumping his fingers inside her, he watches her lips open, teeth forming two perfect little rows. He imagines biting her lip, tasting her blood in his mouth. 

Kissing her, he feels her inner cheek with his tongue, forces it as far into her mouth as he can. She opens her jaw wide, lets him spread her legs as he presses into her. Everything about her is pliable, her bones going soft beneath him. For a moment, he mourns the fact that he's already spent, pictures those soft thighs surrounding him. Everything is so much nicer when they don't fight. 

“There we go, baby girl. Let Daddy take care of you.” 

Whimpering, she arches her back up, away from her still tied wrists as he takes advantage of her prone state to give her breasts some much needed attention. The blush has spread from her cheeks, and her chest is flushed a delightful pink, just begging to be touched. Proudly, he notes the bruises from last time are still there. Making a point to darken them, he pinches the skin between his teeth, the pained gasp she gives in reply straining his thin resolve. 

 

“Are you going to be good from now on?” He hammers at her with his hand, practically punching her. 

“Yes, daddy,” her voice hiccups out of her throat. She isn't herself anymore. This isn't her body. It isn't her voice. She is a ball of black gauze and he is the scissor ripping her seams. She is free, fraying and unfurling. This is not her body. 

 

His mouth chokes her as he kisses her again, all tongue and teeth. Whining, breathless, she feels her legs tighten against him, shaking, impatient. 

“Good Brat. Such a good little girl for me, aren't you?” he murmurs into her mouth. 

“Yes daddy.” She lets her hips roll forward, doesn't fight it as another orgasm sputters towards the surface. 

“Pretty girl. So very nice and pretty. You like that, pretty whore?”  

Her breath is a hammer in her ribs, chest heaving as she clenches her legs around his hand, “I'm close, so close-” 

“Come again? I can't hear you.” 

“I'm so close, daddy! I'm-” Wailing, she gasps for air as curling his fingers, he draws her off the ledge, into temporary absolution. 

“What a well behaved Orphan,” he purrs, letting her cum around his fingers as she tenses into a single knot of energy, quickly untying into a slow-unfolding parachute. 

As she comes down from the high of her climax, he draws his fingers from her, lifting them to her lips. “Very well behaved indeed.” She doesn't care that he watches intently as she opens her mouth, sliding his fingers against her teeth. The taste is salty, like sweat. It almost reminds her of biting into something only to discover it is much more bitter than anticipated. 

Pulling his fingers out slowly, he plays with her lower lip, rolling it beneath his thumb before pinching her chin. Forcing her mouth open, he kisses her, his tongue pressing to hers. 

“You taste so good, don't you think?” he whispers, moaning low in his throat. “Delicious little brat.”

Turning her head to the side, she closes her eyes, feels herself begin to sink back into her skin. 

Sighing, he sits up, grips her bicep and pulls her to a sitting position. None too quickly, he undoes the belt. Her body is limp, loose as he takes her wrist in his hand, massages it tenderly. This gesture is almost more terrifying than anything else. A few minutes later, he takes her other arm, sits across from her and rubs the lines his belt bit into her skin. Immobile, she watches his movements, curled into herself. 

 

“You know,” he starts, voice still raspy, “if you had just agreed to be mine, we wouldn't need to waste so much time whipping you into shape. I take care of my things.” 

Unresponsive, she stares at her hands, doesn't want to let his words in her head. 

“Anyway,” he sucks through his teeth, continues massaging her wrist, bending her hand to dig his thumbs into her palm, “it's not too late.”

“Too late for what?” Her voice is level. She doesn't feel anything, not yet. 

“For you to change your mind. We've made some remarkable progress. I could see myself being persuaded to keep you.” 

“Keep me?” She is staring at her hands, but she is looking through them.

“It would be a shame to waste such promise. Why kill you when I can have my own little Orphan to keep my bed warm?” 

“I'd rather die.” 

 

The utter lack of passion in her voice is amusing. He switches hands, massages her other palm. 

“Doesn't make a difference to me. Just something for you to think about.” 

“Can I get my clothes now?”

“In a bit.” 

“I want to shower and wear my own clothes.” 

“But you look so much better like this.”

“I want to shower and wear my own clothes.”

“I heard you the first time.”

“And?”

“And I don't care about what you want.”

“We had a deal!”

“Don't you ever shut the fuck up?” Irritated, he slaps her hand away from himself, falling on his back again, onto the mattress. 

 

Clutching her reddened hand, she stares at the dirty sheet. There are a million things she can say but she says none of them. 

“Why are you so awful?” she finally whispers. 

“It's called discipline,” he grunts, eyes closed.

“It's not.” Perfectly still, she holds her fingers, grounds herself in the stinging pain. 

“You're a spoiled-”

“Bastard.” 

“What did you say?”

Looking at him, she stares into his eyes, “You're an absolute bastard.”

“Am I?” He laughs, links his fingers together behind his head. His amusement is unnerving. “Alright. Go take your shower. We can go to your room after.” 

Uncertain as to what has actually happened, she stands slowly, wrapping her arms around herself as she walks to the bathroom. 

“ _ Bastard _ ,” he chuckles with a sigh. “My god.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full credit to the lovely courtneybgood for helping me with genius ideas on how to make everything else more terrible. For distress specifically related to the Bertrand lines, you can thank her over at (https://archiveofourown.org/users/courtneybgood/pseuds/courtneybgood)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Drugs, Alcohol, Assault

She wasn't trying to die. Not really. She had only wanted to sleep for a while. When her back hits the cold tile wall, she is shocked into a spark of consciousness, unsure whether or not she wants to cling to it.  


“Useless,” a voice mutters. She doesn't know whose it is. Maybe hers. It sounds sufficiently hazy, as if half-imagined. “ _ Useless _ ,” it says again, and then the air has gone thick. She is cold, colder than she's been since… since… She cannot remember. The fact that she cannot remember doesn't bother her. She'll sleep, and afterwards everything will be better. 

There is a sound, and then there is pain. She suspects the two are related, but she cannot be certain. The sound comes again, and a moment later the pain. They are connected, she thinks. She is a scientist. Or at least, she believes she is. She'll settle the matter when she wakes up.

“ _ Get the fuck up _ ,” a voice says. She is fairly certain this one isn't hers. Her own thoughts are pleading with her to sleep. Each attempt at waking feels like the moment at a swing's highest peak, right before the sharp fall. There is the sound of buzzing- no, tapping- and then she is jolted into herself, coughing the dryness out of her throat. As her body shakes, she is aware of just how heavy it is. Her hands swipe at her face, try to clear her eyes. It's raining, and the water hits her lips, runs in rivers over her. Her body is so heavy, her dry tongue swollen in her mouth. As she blinks, she is surprised by how white the sky is. No… not the sky. She is sitting up. She is staring ahead, not up. “About time,” the voice mutters, pushes her hair out of her face. The wall. She is looking at a wall. White tile stacked above white tile. The shower. She's on the shower floor. She follows the grout with her eyes, traces the stains. She hopes a particularly dark one isn't blood. 

“Violet, hey. Look at me, Violet.” 

Her vision swims as her head turns to the side. She is seeing double, triple… One elongated drag of shape and color. There is the sound again, the pain. Her face. It is her face that hurts. She stares at him, trying to root herself. Olaf. Why is he here? She's in the shower. He hits her cheek again and she hits him back. 

There is a lovely moment as his head goes backwards, a beautiful red marbling the overwhelming white of her vision. 

  


“Jesus fucking-” he holds his bloody nose, looking in disbelief at the feral child before him. Her hands are still clenched into fists, but he can see her concentration slipping. “What the hell was that?”

“I'm in the shower!” she shouts, eyes closed. 

“I know!”

“Don't look!”

“You're fully clothed! And even if you weren't…” He turns off the shower water, grabs her by the bicep. “It's a bit late for that, isn't it?” 

“Why am I in my clothes?” Confused and still frightened, she opens her eyes, staring down at herself. “I'm in the shower!”

“Because  _ someone  _ can't handle their liquor! How much did you drink?” Sitting her up, he pulls her to her shaky feet. 

“One… two…”

“Two what? Shelves?” 

“I found this,” she points sloppily towards the floor. 

“Found what?”

“You know…” She mimes twisting something. “The thing.”

“What thing?”

“Right there!” Emphatically, she pointed towards an empty sink.

“What are you-”

“The, um, blue! Blue and the,” she twists her hands again. “You know!”

He stares at the sink, the towel, the mirror- The mirror. 

“Violet, did you open this door?” He touches the mirror above the sink. “Are you trying to tell me you took the blue pills?”

“That's them!” She straightens up, excited, only to immediately stumble. 

Catching her around the waist, he lowers her to the floor. “Alright. Very good. Hey, Violet, can you open your mouth for me?” 

  


“ _ Why? _ ” she starts to say, but then she is choking, hands cold on the ceramic tub ledge. His hand is on the back of her head and her jaw aches as the acid in her stomach crawls up her throat. Gagging, she pulls away, vomiting onto the shower floor. It tastes sour, like warm liquor. His fingers dig into the back of her neck as he shoves his hand into her mouth again. He is going to reach right down her throat, she is certain of it, and so she fights back. The room is spinning but she is still alive and she doesn't know why he is choking her like this, but he is, and she hates it. 

She tries to shove him away but he is stronger and it is only a few more seconds before she is gagging again, vomiting into the tub. For a moment she is embarrassed, wonders if she got any on his hands, but then she remembers she does not care, and so when he grabs her again, she aims for his nose. 

  


Half an hour later, she is laying on the bed, wearing the only dry clothes he could get her into. Namely, her underwear and a pair of socks. Fast asleep, she is curled into a fetal position, hair tangled behind her. Looking her over, he takes a moment to check her breathing; it would be a waste of effort if she were to die this early. He wonders if she did it on purpose, if she'll do it again. 

She's surprisingly heavy for so small a person, but maybe that was just the dead weight. She had looked plenty dead; Snow fucking White, passed out on the floor. He'd actually stopped in his tracks, stared at her crumpled body. The first thing he had felt was disappointment. After all those years, all that work, the damn bitch had cheated him of his victory. It was another minute before he realized she was still breathing, and while still irritated, he had been glad not to have to go through the work of disposing of the body. 

The tell-tale liquor bottle is still on the floor, and so he picks it up, takes a swig. She's a real idiot, mixing drugs with absinthe of all things. He thought medicine cabinets were supposed to be safe from bougie little idiots. 

Climbing into the bed beside her, he takes another swig, places the bottle down next to himself. He has already peeled off his clothes, washed first the shower and then himself, and now he is just damn tired. The sun is rising and he hates it. 

Her back is to him, and he lets his fingers trace along her side before slipping to her front. Shifting close, he smells her wet hair, cups her breast in his hand, regrets the fabric of her bra. Yes, she'll owe him for tonight. He can feel the excitement growing inside him at the prospect of what he can get in return for a life-debt. He lets his legs curl behind hers, holds her close to his naked chest. He doesn't let his mind wander; he is tired tonight, doesn't have the energy for all that would entail. Tomorrow. Tomorrow she will be just as small, just as naked, just as indebted. Instead he focuses on the low throbbing pain in his nose. She'll owe him for that too. Damn girl. 

It had almost been nice, being able to move her without issue. She'd never been so compliant in her life. Her body was flushed, warm as he carried her to the bathroom, dropped her into the tub. Call it a wives’ tale, but he'd been in the bag often enough to know what worked. Things didn't become concerning until she stayed asleep, and he was once again faced with the threat of having to dispose of a body. 

“Useless brat,” he whispered to her, fully aware she couldn't hear him. He'd smacked her cheek lightly, hoping to knock her awake. Finally, when he was considering forcing some coffee and bread into her, she finally woke up. Of all the things he had expected, violence was not one of them. 

He stares at her still damp clothes on the floor, makes a mental note to generate another opportunity to see her like that. The dress is a terrible sky blue that did wonderful things once soaked through. The peach undertones of her skin showed through beautifully, lined by the harsher white of her underwear. Even later, when he had peeled off the layers, he hadn't been able to resist taking his time, kissing her skin as he dried her. She'd fought a little, but not nearly as much as she'd done when he'd tried to save her life. She lay on the bed now, having changed into a mismatched set of a blue bra and panties. It was cute in an amateur model way. 

Kissing her neck, he curls his fingers, runs them beneath the top of her bra. She shivers in her sleep, sighing. Burying his face in her hair, he exhales, tightens his grip. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Bondage, Sadism, Enforced daddy kinks, Choking

He finishes tying her hands with a bow.

“You know,” Olaf purrs, “as much as I was against the idea, your things have turned out quite useful. Who knew a scarf could be so versatile?” 

“Yeah, okay, just hurry up,” she grumbles, shifting her weight. 

“Why the rush?” He leans down, kisses her forehead. Disgusted, she pulls away. Or, she tries to pull away. The knot about her wrists doesn't allow for much movement, holding her arms firmly above her head, and her shoulders strain at the attempt. He chuckles as she flattens herself against the wall, the back of the stiff wooden chair digging into her spine. He steps back to inspect his work. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he begins to trace his fingers down her body, perusing her inch by inch. When he reaches her bust, she looks away, doesn't want to see the concentration on his face. He lets his fingers pause at the seam between skin and cloth, tucking beneath the lace for only a moment before continuing, slowly mapping the contours of her body like goddamn Mercator.

She hadn't asked where he got the top from, doesn't want to know. It bites into her sides, just small enough that though she managed to get into it, it took a lot of coaxing to get her body into the intended shape. She wonders if that is part of the appeal for him; the discomfort. Probably. He certainly doesn't seem to mind it, at any rate, 

He moves his fingers slowly along her hips, pausing to readjust the waist of her panties. The silence is what terrifies her, she thinks. No questions, no explanations, not even a lewd comment as he touches her freely, makes her his property. He doesn't deign to acknowledge the person inside the body. She is nothing to him. 

Slipping down her thighs, he pauses again, traces the seam where the elastic of her stockings dimple the skin. “ _ Stockings were never meant to be sexy clothes _ ,” she thinks as he tugs at her left leg. 

“There we go.” He steps back, examines his work with a smile. “Almost finished.”

In theory, this incessant prolonging oughtn’t bother her. Anything that gives her time where he is not inside her should be a blessing, but she is viscerally aware of the fact that he knows this, is toying with her just to see the fear in her eyes. He wants her to beg for mercy, to give him an excuse to punish her. And so, she says nothing, glowers sullenly as he pulls a tube of lipstick from his pocket.

“Where’d you get that?” she pulls her head back as he comes closer. It isn’t hers.

“Quiet.” He grabs her chin, tilting her face upwards as he smears her lips red. “Don’t ask nosy questions.” He is careful, intent upon his work. He is quiet again, calculating, and so she doesn’t fight. 

 

When he steps back, what he is looking at is nothing short of a masterpiece. “Perfect,” he whispers, adjusting the angle of her arm. “Stay just like that.” For the first time in her life, she listens, doesn’t immediately disobey him. He’s been gracious with that; she’s broken their agreement so many times, he’d have killed her if her fight wasn’t so much fun. Looking over her again, he pauses. Something isn’t right yet. She glares at him, cold and silent, red lips pursed indignantly. Always putting on a brave face, this one. 

With a snap of his fingers, he throws open his closet door.

“What are you doing?” she calls, irritation in her voice.

“Patience, brat.” He pulls out a black tie. 

“What are you-” she stops talking, leaning away as he holds the fabric taut. “No.”

“No isn’t an option. Now be a good girl and daddy won’t have to hurt you.” 

Smug, he ties the fabric behind her head, blindfolding her. Her face is still held tight in a scowl, but without her cold eyes, it becomes laughable, a child throwing a tantrum. “Much, much better,” he sucks in through his teeth, rearranges her arms, fixing her hair so that it drapes more becomingly. “Good. Chest out,” he arches her back with his hands, shifts her knee to the left so that her legs are opened. “Very good.” Turning around, he goes to the table.

 

Her heart races. She can see her knees if she looks down and doesn’t move her head, but everything else is darkness. His footsteps walk away from her, and then there is the sound of things being shuffled. Instinctually, she turns her head, tries to hear better. 

“Such a pretty little Orphan,” he mutters and then there is the distinct click of a camera lens.

“Hey!” she jumps up, forgetting she is tied. Her knees smack together, a shock of pain running through them.

“Don’t get shy now.” There is laughter in his voice as another click sounds. She covers her face with her arms, adrenaline surging.

“Stop!” She tucks her head down, calculates her best chances of attack. He laughs again, and she tries to locate the sound, figure out exactly where in the room he is. But before she knows it, his hands are on her calves and he is re-positioning her legs.

“What’s wrong, Orphan? I thought you weren’t going to fight.”

“You can’t do this!” she snaps in the general direction of where she thinks he is.

“Oh, but I can.” He stands, shifting her hips forward on the chair, roughly pushing her legs back into place when she pulls them shut. “Matter of fact, I just did.”

“Olaf, please!” she begs, winces as he gropes her chest, pushing her breasts upwards.

“Come now. Don’t tell me you don’t think I deserve a keepsake after everything you’ve put me through. I’ve cherished our time together, brat, and I intend to remember it.” He forces her elbows apart, exposing her face. There is another click. “Besides, it could be much worse. You always seem to forget that.” She doesn’t ask how he could make it worse, but when he re-arches her back, she lets him. “Good brat,” he whispers, pleased. She hopes the blindfold catches her tears. She doesn’t want him to see.

“What are you going to do with the pictures?” she asks, resigned. He’s right; it’s already too late.

“Is that really a question you’re asking?” he laughs. “Violet. Has no one told you about porn yet?”

“No, I mean,” she hesitates. “Where are they going? Who are they going to?”

He makes a non-committal sound and she can imagine him shrugging. “That depends. You know, sometimes you make it easy to forget that you’re not an idiot. But every once in a while-”

“Depends on what?”

His hands press into her thighs and she flinches backwards. She hates herself for that. “Here’s the problem, Orphan,” his voice is low, a whispered growl. “As far as fathers go, I have been extraordinarily kind. Why, I’ve even held off on giving the orders to murder your siblings. I’ve honored our deal, but you, tricky little slut, seem intent on breaking it every chance you get. Now, I am  _ very  _ much inclined to keep these photos to myself, but if you were to, oh, I don’t know, get it into your head that you might have some semblance of control here, I might have to accidently mail these out. And who knows where they’d end up?”

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“I absolutely am. This is your last chance, Violet. Now spread those legs for me.”

There is a moment where she considers that he might be bluffing. She might be doing all this for nothing. He doesn’t really want her dead. If he did, she’d be at the bottom of the ocean by now. But then again… What if he isn’t? 

 

She opens her legs slowly. 

“Perfect,” he whispers, lines up the shot. “Good girl.” Her lip quivers but she doesn’t speak. “Now one where you’re facing forward.” He considers tying her ankles to the chair but decides against it, putting down the camera to make her straddle the seat himself. Her hands tuck behind her head as he reaches into the cups of her bra thing, pushing her tits up. Damn girl really wants to look like a hostage. “Stay there,” he commands, and she silently obeys. As he watches her through the lens, his arousal strains in his pants. “Very good, baby girl. So pretty. Can you open your mouth for Daddy?”

She does, her pink tongue pressed to the back of her teeth, fighting whatever it is she wants to say. With a click, he captures the moment forever. 

“Olaf-”

“Bring your left leg up onto the chair. Head a bit more to the right.” He presses the shutter, imagines how much more fun it would be if he could record the delicate movements. What he wouldn’t give for a film of her choking on his cock… “Both legs on the chair now. Knees to the right. Your other right. Cross the ankles.” Fumbling, she tries to obey the directions as he gives them, hands shaking. He smiles. “Good, Orphan. Don’t be so nervous; you’re a natural.” 

She rests her head against her arm. The way her body hangs makes her look like a slab of meat in a butchery. He takes the picture.

 

For the first time since she met the man, she wishes he would keep talking; she doesn’t like not knowing where he is. Grabbing her arm, he stands her up, kicking her chair to the side. “Here. Keep your foot there,” he pivots her, arranging her body. “Arms up. I want a nice shot of that cute little ass.” 

Clenching her teeth, she keeps silent. Anything she says will only make things worse. 

“Really? Nothing to say to that, Orphan?” He chuckles. “Wow. Who knew you’d be so easy to break in?” 

“Is it important to you that I’m in pain?” She turns her head to where his voice had been coming from. The camera clicks in the opposite direction. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s my first priority.”

“That’s a surprise.”

“Watch that tongue. I am very skilled at cutting them out.”

“You won’t kill me.”

“Who says I’d be so kind? Spread your legs.” He takes another picture. “No, lean forward more. Chest out. Now look at me.”

“Is that supposed to be a joke?” 

“Tilt your head back.” He takes another picture. “Very good. Very nice. These are excellent before shots.”

“Before?”

“You didn’t think I’d let your hard work go unrewarded, did you?” Grabbing her hip, he pushes her knee onto the seat of the chair by the back of her thigh. “No no no. I am a good father, Violet. I take care of my baby girl. Now look this way,” the shutter clicks. “Lean forward. I want a nice slope to your back, understand?”

“You fucking pervert,” she growls, balancing herself. And then his hands are grabbing her, yanking her back against him. She yelps, arms snapped forward against their binding as he grinds his clothed erection against her.

“What was that?” 

“I’m sorry! I-” she freezes as he holds her by the throat, his stubble scratching the side of her face as he continues to run himself on her. 

“What did I say about misbehaving? Do I need to bypass threats and jump right to murder?” 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she cries, gasping for air. 

“Sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry, daddy!”

“Good brat,” he drops her suddenly. She coughs, tries to catch her balance. The camera clicks. “Now stand up for me.” 

There is a moment of silence as she tearfully obeys. Every inch of her body becomes an electric fence as she tries to pinpoint where exactly he is. A click comes from behind her. 

“Don’t move yet,” his voice growls, tugging at the bust of her top. Shaking, she obeys, tries to keep her face from twisting as he pulls at her breasts, exposing them over the black lace. There is another click. “Sit down again.” Still trembling, she is grateful she can at least hide the shaking of her knees. The camera clicks. 

 

He likes the way she jumps every time he speaks, the fear in her face at every movement. Silent, he walks close to her, his face inches from hers. He can hear her breath pull in, jagged, parted lips framing her white teeth. Slowly, he touches her thighs, lets his nails drag along them. She flinches, quickly righting herself, afraid of what he will do. He smiles.

“Good little Orphan,” he rubs between her legs with the pads of his fingers. “So good for daddy.” 

She swallows hard, strains against her bindings, but does not respond.

“Yes, you’re a pretty little whore, aren’t you? Fucking cock tease.” He spits on her chest, adores the way she pulls back, hides behind her arms. He snaps another picture. 

“Olaf-”

“Daddy.”

“Daddy, can’t you-”

“Can’t I what?” He grabs her throat, relishes the way she gasps and twists. “Can’t I make things much more difficult? Why, yes, Orphan, I can.”

“I’m sorry, I only meant-” she coughs, and he releases the pressure just enough to let her keep breathing. “I only meant to ask-”

“You and your constant demands!” He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Really. Who do you think you are, princess?” 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Then shut up and behave.”

“Yes, daddy! Whatever you want! You’re in charge!”

 

She tries to remember what she has read about psychopaths. If she is going to survive, she needs to get smarter, needs to placate him.

“Damn right, little girl.” She feels him fumbling at her hands, and then her arms are dropping, though still bound. He laughs. “I should have thought of giving you a leash sooner.” With a tug, he pulls her off the chair. Her knees hit the floor, arms yanked upwards. She cries out, breath hissing between her teeth as she tries to process the pain. He laughs. “Good.” The camera clicks. “Now. Lets see about that carrot, shall we?”

Pulling her hands up, he presses them to his groin. She can feel his arousal beneath her fingers as she, shaking, searches for his belt. 

“Good girl,” he purrs, petting her hair as she opens the fly of his pants. She tucks her fingers beneath the waistband, tugs it down. He groans and she is just about to ask him to take off the blindfold when his erection hits her chin. The camera clicks. “Do you want to give me a reason to keep that tongue in your mouth, Violet?”

“Yes, daddy,” she whimpers. He pulls at the scarf around her wrists until his penis is between her hands. The camera clicks. Slowly, she lets her fingers tighten around him. This is not what it seems like, she tells herself. It is not his penis and she is not Violet. She is somebody else and this is nothing more than a lead pipe wrapped in velvet. Violet is far away, in her room two decks up. She is sleeping in her bed. This is not something that would happen to Violet Baudelaire, and therefore, she must not be Violet Baudelaire. Tentatively, she begins to stroke him. 

“Christ, Orphan. Don’t tell me you’ve never given a handjob before. First rule is nobody like a dry handjob.” Tightening his hand in her hair, he pulls her face forward until his erection touches her lips. She swallows the gag rising inside her. 

“Sorry,” she mutters, winching. 

“I’m sure you are. Now show me.” 

Opening her mouth, she shakily leans forward until she can feel the tip of his penis in her mouth.  _ No, it is a glass bottle _ , she tells herself. An unnaturally warm glass bottle. 

“Good girl,” he moans, bucking against her. There is another click. She tries not to cough, reminds herself to breathe through her nose. She can feel her mouth watering but she cannot swallow. Pulling back, she closes her lips again, lets her hands work the newly lubricated shaft.  _ Not a shaft _ , she tells herself. He groans, breath hissing as she takes him back into her mouth.  _ Maybe _ , she thinks,  _ just maybe, if he finishes quick it can be over _ . It is hard to ignore the fact that he is right next to her teeth. ( _ Not his body, not her teeth _ .)

 

She’s a pretty little thing when she’s obedient. Her cherry red lips open over his cock, tongue cushioning him as she sucks him off.

“Good girl,” he grunts, takes another picture. “You like making daddy happy?”

“Yes daddy,” she whimpers, fingers sliding up and down his length. 

“Do you like being my little whore?”

“Yes daddy.” Her voice cracks. She is crying. Gently, he strokes his hand down her face. She actually leans into his kind touch, but only for a moment. Watching her expression, he moves his fingers to the back of her neck, waiting for her to take him into her mouth again before thrusting. 

He can feel her try to fight, can feel the warm wetness of her suctioned mouth as she gags. Sternly, he shushes her, continues fucking those pretty little lips. 

“Easy, brat. Relax,” he grunts, holding her head in place. Even after he drops her hands, they stay in front of her face, trying to protect her throat. Shakily, he lifts the camera, makes sure he’s in as far as he can go before taking the picture. She tries to pull back but he won’t let her, fingers tight on her neck. He slides in and out a few more times before deciding she has earned a break.

Coughing, she doubles over, gasping. “Olaf, please-” He can hear the tears in her voice.

“Please what?” He lifts her chin, yanks her hands back up again. “You want me to face-fuck you again so soon?”

“No! I can’t-” her words are silenced into a muffled sound as he pinches her jaw, slides his cock back onto her tongue.

“Sure you can. We just need to practice, don’t we?” Again, he thrusts against her, pumping himself in and out, groaning as her tongue presses up against him. Still whining, she grips him, hands running over his length as she leans away, tries to catch her breath. A spot of drool runs down her chin. He lines up the camera, takes another picture. “Now give me one where the tip is on your tongue.”

Shaking, she obeys, opens her mouth wide, holds his dick as the tip rests on that talented pink tongue of hers.  He snaps the picture. Almost all of his shaft has been stained by her now smudged lipstick. It’s a good look on both of them. 

 

Every time he thrusts into her mouth she is certain he is trying to kill her. Calculating, she catches him in her hand, busies her tongue with working over the tip, hopes he can be persuaded to leave her to her own rhythm. Moaning, he rocks his hips forward, hand twisting in her hair. That’s okay. So long as he is touching her with both hands, he isn’t taking pictures. Speeding up, she bobs her head over him, fingers pumping at his shaft ( _ This is not him, she is not her _ ). 

Moaning, he tightens his grip. “Fuck, brat, keep doing that-” Seeing a light at the end of this tunnel, she obeys, furiously working. He groans, letting go of her hands to grip the other side of her face. Faking a moan of her own, she flicks her tongue against him. If she can just stroke his ego, maybe it will be over sooner. “Damn, you like sucking cock don’t you?” he hisses, breath heavy. 

“Yes, daddy.” If she’s going to survive, he needs to have a reason not to kill her. Had he been joking the other night when he’d threatened to keep her alive? Even if he was, there might have been some truth in it. She can survive, she only has to play the game right. She needs to get smart, to not take a shot until she is certain she can make it.

“Good to know,” he chuckles humorlessly, groans loudly. “Shit- Fuck-”

“Is that good, daddy?” She pours ever ounce of sweetness she has into her voice.

“You’re very talented, Orphan. Now shut up and finish your job.” He’s frustrated, close.

“Yes, daddy.” She takes him back into her mouth, resists the urge to spit out the taste.  _ It isn’t him, she reminds herself. With this blindfold on, he can be anybody she wants. _ He lets go of her again, and she can hear him gasping over the click of the camera. 

“Keep going, keep going, I’m- Fuck!” He grunts loudly, the sound melting into a groan as she feels him spill onto her tongue. Unable to stop herself, she pulls back, doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction. He pushes her hands out of the way, groaning as he strokes his own erection, and then she is flinching back as he lets himself cum on her naked chest. Anger boils inside her but she refuses to move until after he is done, spitting out the bitter liquid silently. She has to play the game. 

“Good girls are supposed to swallow,” he groans, sentiment punctuated by the click of the camera.

“Sorry, daddy,” she tries not to pull back in revulsion as he wipes the semen from her chin, tucks his finger into her mouth. 

Sighing, he pulls her to her feet, lifts her arms again, retying them to the hook. She can hear the rustle of fabric as she sits, silent. “Open your legs.” The camera clicks again. 

 

He watches her, silent and still before him. Has she finally given up? Even a brat as stupid as a Baudelaire has to realize when they’re beat. Standing before her, he cradles her cheek, waits for her to lean into his touch. Gentle, hesitant, she raises her face, somehow manages to stare straight at him despite the blindfold. He regards her for another second before slapping her, hard.

Shoulders drawn in, she winces, cries out a staccato shriek. He forces her arms to the side, snaps a picture while the handprint is still setting in. “Next time, you swallow.”

“Yes, daddy,” she whimpers. She is crying again; he can hear it in her quivering voice. 

“Now stand up for me.” 

Quick, she obeys, flinching when he puts his hands on her, tugging off her panties. 

“I want you on the edge of the seat, legs spread.”

Terrified, she sits, knees only a few inches apart. 

“Is that spread, whore?” 

Shaking, she opens her legs to the width of the chair. 

Putting down the camera, he grips her thighs, forcing them open. She cries out, afraid, pulling her face away from his as she continues crying. Pinching her jaw, he forces her face forward. “When I say spread your legs, you spread your legs.”

“Yes, daddy,” she keeps crying. 

“Now don’t move.” He steps back far enough to get all of her into the photo before taking the picture, and then another for good measure. “Chest out.” Trembling, she complies, arching her back so that her abused little tits were nice and centered. “Very good.” He takes a few more. 

Walking back over to her, he can see her body hitch with each breath. She jumps when he touches her, turns her face away.

“Calm down,” he pets her hair, pulls the long tresses down to better frame her chest. “You know daddy only hurts you when you make him.” Silent, she purses her lips together, still crying. With a sigh, he kneels before her, massages her breasts in his hands. “If you’d only be a good girl, I wouldn’t have to hit you.”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers, knees closing against him.

“I forgive you, brat, but don’t think my patience is infinite.” He squeezes her nipple between his fingers, smiles when she gasps. “Perfect. Keep that mouth open.” Lifting the camera, he takes another picture. “All I want is to take care of you; is that so awful?”

“No, daddy,” she whispers, shifting her weight uneasily. 

“Do you want to be my good girl?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Say it, Violet.”

“I want to be your good girl.”

“Do you know what I do to good girls?”

“What?” 

She gasps again, shuddering as he slides his fingers against her, “I use their cute little pussies until they beg. Do you want to beg for me, baby girl?”

“Yes, daddy,” there is still terror in her voice, but even she cannot stop her hips from bucking against him. He smiles, wishes he had brought some toys. That would make a darling photo. 

 

Through the darkness she can feel him lean against her, and then his mouth is on her breast, tongue teasing her before he pinches her with his teeth.

“You look so pretty bruised,” he murmurs against her skin, fingers rubbing her clit as he leaves marks all over her. For a moment he pulls back and she thinks he is done, but then the camera clicks and she realizes he is still getting started. Firmly, he tilts her head to the side so that the most-likely bruised cheek is facing him and takes another picture. Shame floods her belly, makes her wish she could curl into a ball, but she has to live, has to play his game. She has an obligation to survive, damn the consequences. 

His hands hook under and around her thighs, holding onto her. So long as he is holding her in both hands, he cannot take pictures. She forces herself to moan when he licks her, tongue teasing her clit. He needs to let his guard down. She will survive. 

“You like that?” he whispers between her legs.

“Yes, daddy.” Silently, she prays that whatever god may be watching can read thoughts, knows she is a liar. 

Holding her tight, he runs his tongue along her in alternating patterns of depth and speed, and as much as she wants to be dead, she doesn’t have to fake the tremor in her thighs. She is in the bath, she tells herself. That is a washcloth, and she is in a warm bath. She is alone and no one is touching her. He sucks at her clit between his teeth, makes her whole body tense with the sensation. Laughing, he resumes his work. 

 

She’s so cute, struggling against her bonds as he plays with her, her legs curling over his shoulders. Eager, he pumps a finger inside her, savoring the moan she gives in reply. 

“Good girl,” he smiles, hungry. “Such a good little girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, daddy.” She strains at her tied wrists, fidgeting as he keeps her on the brink of real pleasure.

“No, you’re not,” he clicks his tongue. “Not yet. But you can be. You just need to learn to behave, isn’t that right?”

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers again, pressing herself down onto his slow pumping finger.

“Do you like it when I fuck you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you like it when I play with your pussy?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Say it.”

“I like it when you play with my pussy.”

“Wrong,” leaning in, he runs his tongue over her, shoving a second finger in. “This is mine, not yours.” 

She gasps, arching her back as he flicks his tongue over and around her clit, not giving her any rest from the constant attention. Trembling, she tries to pull away, gasping for air. Feeling generous, he pauses, focuses instead on how nicely his fingers fit inside her.

“It’s so easy to get you wet. Did you know that?” 

Biting her lip, she shakes her head, though he isn’t sure if that’s in response to his question or touch. 

“Yes, I could tell as soon as I saw you. You were one of the ones born to be a whore. Would you like that, Violet? Living the rest of your short life as my whore?”

To his complete and utter shock, she sighs, arching forward towards him, “Yes, daddy.”

“Really?” There is delighted disbelief in his voice as he laughs. “My, my, my. You’ll agree to anything so long as you get to cum, won’t you?”

“No,” she whispers, breath catching. Kneeling, he situates his face just in front of hers, hammers at her quickly with his hand. She cries out.

“No? Do you think you’re allowed to tell me no?”

“No,” she insists, breathy. “No, I agreed because I want you.” 

“You want me, little brat?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” she nods, serious.

“You want to be my good girl?”

“I want to be yours,” she leans forward as if to touch him, but her hands are still bound.

“That’s hard work, little girl,” he kisses her neck, amused. Damn brat really will say anything for the chance to finish. Slowing down, he pulls his fingers from her, leans back just far enough to get the shot. She’s lovely when breathless. “Pretty little brat. Now, do you want to cum for me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl.” Situating his face between her legs again, he presses his tongue inside her. She gasps, moaning in a high pitch, legs crossing behind his back. Digging his fingers into her thighs, he works fast, egged on by her increasingly needy sounds. 

All too soon she is gasping, hands pulling at her restraints as she shakes, cries out. He focuses on keeping a steady rhythm, watches her as she cums, hard and fast. 

Her body flexes, breasts thrust forward as her back becomes a sundae spoon, curving beautifully towards him. Her legs open, calves sliding as she tries to maintain her balance, tries not to fall off the chair. Holding her thighs up, he makes her finish against his tongue, pulling at her clit with his lips, forcing her through her climax. 

With a sigh, she falls backwards, held aloft by her wrists. Slow, he stands, looking over her again before pulling the blindfold down. She blinks into the light, shaking her head as her eyes adjust. Chuckling, he resituates her legs, moves backwards to get a better view of her ruin.

“Good girl,” he smirks. The camera clicks.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Knives, Blood

Olaf's grip is hard on the back of her neck, his thumb pressing in so that she can feel her pulse in her jaw. 

“Of course. Give me one minute.” Bored, the man behind the desk flips through some cards. “You say you were in room…?”

“Six thirteen.” Irritated, Olaf taps his fingers against the counter.

The man frowns. “It says here the room is a single.” Curious, he glances between the two of them. He doesn't have to say anything for Violet to see him quickly calculating the differences in their ages.

“My daughter,” Olaf offers.  _ Lie. _ She can hear the menace in his voice, knows the man will not be able to detect it. 

“Daughter, of course.” He shoots her a cursory glance. She smiles.

“And how did you lose the key?” 

“It's in the room. My daughter forgot it.” 

_ Lie _ . He left it because he was drunk, ready to rummage through her things again. 

“Oh, yes?” The man behind the desk chuckles. “You do that to your poor dad?”

“It was an accident,” she shrugs. 

“Kids. Such rascals, am I right?” Olaf rubs the top of her head with his knuckles. She winces. 

“Sorry, dad.” She tries to step away, but his hold on her neck is firm. The man laughs. 

“They certainly are. I'll have someone come down with a masterkey.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” Olaf smiles. “Thank the nice man, Laura.” 

It's a moment before she remembers she is Laura. 

“Thank you.” 

The two men laugh together. Olaf's nails pinch her skin. 

“Now, it may be a while, so if you haven't had the opportunity already, may I suggest taking the time to visit our dining options on the Captain's deck?”

Olaf leans against the desk. “How is the wine selection?” 

 

Ten minutes later they are seated at a too-small table with a white tablecloth worn thin from constant bleaching. Having taken the liberty of pulling out her chair, Olaf immediately seated himself directly to her right, leaving the table an awkward display of open space. He downs his newly poured glass quickly, doesn't flinch as he does so. 

“And for the lady?” the waiter asks, turning to Violet. 

“My daughter will have the house special,” Olaf waves the man off with a uncaring hand, pouring Violet a glass of whatever it was he was drinking. It is red. Unflinchingly red.

“We don't have a house special, Sir.”

“Then she will have whatever's convenient.” He hands the man his menu. Questioningly, the waiter turns to her. 

“The grilled chicken will be fine.” She hands him her own menu. With a nod, he leaves. 

“Don't embarrass me like that.” Olaf doesn't look at her as he speaks, refilling his glass. 

“Embarrassing? How am I embarrassing? You-” She bites her tongue. (The saying is supposed to be a metaphor, she knows that, but she can taste the battery acid blood in her molars.)

“Yes?” He drags the knife further up her leg, slowly sipping his drink. “You were saying?”

“Sorry.” She stares at the wall. “It won't happen again.” Her fingers fidget in her lap. After all this time, she is still fourteen years old. 

“Good girl.” He turns the knife over, lets her feel the blade scraping over her skin. “I would so hate for you to suddenly get a loose tongue. I can't imagine what might happen if you were to forget yourself, Laura.” 

She closes her eyes. “I won't.”

“Look at your father when he is speaking to you.” He spits the words out under his breath. 

She takes a breath, making a conscious effort to turn her neck. Strange, how many small parts the body was made of. 

His face is horribly calm, lips fixed in what could be a casual grin if one doesn't look too close. 

“I'm sorry.” She tightens her jaw. “Father.”

“Much better. Now. Don't you want your drink?”

“No.”  _ Lie.  _

“Just a taste. It's good.” He smiles wider. The gesture doesn't reach his eyes. 

Hesitant, she takes the glass, holds a thimble’s amount between her teeth and lips. It's room temperature. 

“Good, see?” He sits back, drags the knife along her leg. 

“Yes.” She counts the monochrome pictures on the walls. There's twelve of them. Four on each wall. After a few moments of staring, she realizes they aren't pictures, but newspapers. She wonders what the stories are. Good reviews? Family events? 

A waiter comes by to fill the water glasses she hadn't noticed were empty. “Everything alright with the lady and gentleman?”

“Splendid. Isn't that right, darling?” 

“Yes. Splendid.”  _ Lie.  _ She smiles at the waiter as he passes, wishes she knew morse code. Maybe then she could spell out the word “help.” If she only had a writing utensil, she could write it on the corner of her napkin, slip it onto her finished plate. 

“Why so glum, sugarplum?” Olaf traces her knee, uses the top of the knife to flip up the skirt of her dress. Feeling the blush rising in her body, she reaches for her water glass, masks her discomfort by fishing out some ice cubes for her wine.

“How uncouth,” Olaf laughs. She only shrugs, grits her teeth as his knife works its way up her thigh, bringing her skirt with it.

“Stop.” She doesn't look at him as she speaks, cannot stomach the glee she knows will be there. 

“Stop what? I'm not doing anything.”

“Someone will see.” She takes a drink of her wine, hides her expression behind a show of boredom. 

“Not if you stay quiet.” 

The blade slithers along her outer leg. She forces herself not to shiver. The metal is cold, but it could always be worse. 

“Olaf-”

“Daddy.”

“Father.” She stares at her hands, folded together on the table. “I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to do that.”

“Oh, but it's so like old times, isn't it?” He chuckles as if reminiscing on boyhood pranks. “What was the name of that man? The one with the ridiculous name. He died while babysitting you.”

She grits her teeth, doesn't want to answer, but knows he is not afraid of drawing blood. “Uncle Monty. You killed him.”

“What? No,” he denies it campishly, not a sliver of doubt in his voice. “Surely I would remember killing old Doctor Montgomery Montgomery.”

“Don't say his name.” She doesn't care if he hurts her, doesn't want Uncle Monty's memory held in the graveyard of his mouth. 

He ignores her, strokes his beard as if in thought. “That was just after you were handed off to me, wasn't it?” 

“After you tried to marry me.”

“That's right; your brief debut into the arts.” He laughs. “My, you were a pretty thing. Nothing gives a father greater pleasure than watching such a lovely girl blossom before his eyes.” The knife wanders up until she is certain it is going to touch her belly. The acid in her stomach rolls. Maybe if she throws up, she can buy some time alone. “Of course,” he stops, twisting the knife so that it brushes feather-light against her, “poor Bertrand had no such opportunity. Burning to a crisp will do that you.” 

Grabbing her wine glass, she downs it. Without looking away from her face, he signals a waiter to bring another bottle. “Do you remember the first time we played this game, dear? How nicely you squirmed for me?” He purrs, proud of his ability to conquer anything smaller and weaker than himself.

“Go to hell,” she hisses as begins counting the thread ratio in the tablecloth. 

“Such a cute little thing. I had rather hoped you'd try to sneak out of bed again that night.”

“Olaf-”

“And what disappointment when you didn't. I had the spend the entire night jerking off just to quiet the thought.” He sighs contentedly, brushes the knife back down her leg. “Funny how things change.” 

“Please,” she whispers the word, wants to bury her face in the tablecloth. 

“Please what?”

“Please stop.” She imagines cracking him over the head with her glass. But he's survived worse, would survive that, and would make her pay for it. 

“You have a lot to learn, don't you, Brat?” He places the knife down on his leg, uses both hands to take the bottle from the waiter. She pours herself the last of the old bottle. “Which one was your favorite?” He swirls his glass, acts as if he is a connoisseur beyond alcohol content. 

“Which what?”

“Guardian. Which was your favorite?” When he smiles, she can see the wine stains between his teeth. She looks away again. “Oh come on. Don't get shy now. I'll tell you  _ my  _ favorite.”

“Don't talk to me.” She stares at the second newspaper in on the wall opposite her. There's a blotchy black and white photo that she can't quite make out from here. A cliff? Maybe a mountain?

“Is that any way to speak to your father?”

His voice cracks in poorly restrained anger. She can see the tension in his throat as he takes up his knife again.

“My apologies,” she spits. How bad would it be if he did cut her? Bleeding out on a restaurant floor couldn't be worse than this. But she knows better, knows he will never be so kind. 

_ SOS _ , she remembers with a jolt. She doesn't have to be able to spell. The thought makes her feel stupid. 

“Manners.”

“My apologies, father.” How difficult would it be to take the knife from him? Moreover, would it be worth it? What if the waiter is working with him? It would certainly explain Olaf's ridiculous bravado. The ice taps against her lip as she drinks from her glass. He refills it.

“Much better.” He licks his teeth. The motion reminds her of a snake. “You know, I always wondered,” he hums contemplatively, “did you ever notice the way your things went missing?” 

She doesn't decide to look at him; she just does. He's glad for the reaction, smiles like an indolent child being given attention.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve amassed quite a collection over the years.” There is undisguisable glee in his eyes: he knows he's hit a nerve. 

“Why would you do that?”

“Did it ever make you think you were going mad?”

“No!”  _ Lie.  _ “We moved around so much, it was a wonder I held onto anything at all!”

“Did you?” He cocks his head. “Hold onto anything, I mean.” 

She stares at him. He already knows the answer. 

“You know…” Sighing contentedly, he swirls his wine, sips it slowly. “I could be persuaded to hand a few of my treasures over.”

She thinks of the ribbon she had worn in her hair on that day at Briny Beach, of other small trinkets she had long ago mourned. 

“I don't need them.”  _ Lie.  _ She hates the accusatory weight of the wine on her tongue.

“Sure, sure, sure. Just something to think about.” 

“You're sick.”

“Perhaps. But I'm a survivor.” 

“I would hardly call what you've done surviving.”

“Is your own story any better?” 

“Go to fucking hell.”

“Language.”

“Go to fucking hell,  _ dad _ .” 

He laughs as if she has told a great joke, and then there is a hot searing on her leg. In the moment she is glad she work a navy dark dress, though in hindsight she will regret the decision. 

Both of them are tense as he presses the cool edge of the blade to the papercut-thin scratch. “Don't think for one moment my capacity for torture has run dry, let alone been touched.” His tone is stiff, doesn't match the calm placidity of his face. “Believe me, you worthless brat, you would be surprised at what your body will accept in exchange for death. I can see to it that misery becomes a kindness bestowed upon you so long ago you cannot remember its name, just the way it felt, the struggle of wanting to live. When I am through, you will beg me for death, and I may not be so kind. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” her voice slides out of her mouth, deflated. 

“Good.” He drains his glass. She waits an appropriate amount of time before doing the same. He drags the blade up her inner thigh. She stares at the wall. 

Sixteen. There are sixteen pictures, not twelve, she realizes; she just can't see the ones behind her, unless they break the pattern on the last wall. If she could get away from this knife, she could find out what they are. 

“You know,” he drawls, as if deep in thought, “there are so many different kinds of knives.”

“Is that so.”

“Oh yes,” he wrinkles his forehead, nodding, refilling his own glass with the dregs of the bottle. “Pocket knives. Switchblades. Army knives. Machetes. This right here is a steak knife.” He draws a small loop along her inner knee. “Cousin of the less threatening butterknife.” 

“Fascinating.”  _ Maybe they're articles chronicling the ship's voyages. _

“Yes. It can be overwhelming, trying to see the differences. Though in my line of work, it is, of course, necessary. Take the humble butterknife, for example. Only a knife in name, really. You wouldn't get far trying to slice anything of a heartier matter unless you had plenty of time and patience.”

“Oh, yes?”  _ Maybe they're human interest pieces about past passengers. Or news stories from far away ports, once visited. If she squints, she can just barely make out the ones closest to them. _ Nonchalantly, she looks over her shoulder.

“Yes. Now, if you don't have time or patience, as is most often the case, you'll want something much sharper. That's why chef's knives are so smooth. Same with hunting knives, paring knives. Jagged edges tear the material, they don't cut it. If you want something clean and quick, something more, shall we say, humane, you're going to need something that is both thin and smooth. One swipe and it's over.” He scrapes the knife along her leg. “Jagged edges make it messy, more… laborious. Draws it out. With a thin, sharp blade, it's almost a mercy kill.” He takes a sip of his blood-wine. “Do you want to guess what my favorite knife is?”

“What's your favorite knife?” She sits back, feeling nauseous.  _ They're articles about shipwrecks. Every single one of them _ . The pictures, once given context, are obviously photographs of huddled persons, half-afloat monoliths. 

“Carving knives.”

She looks at him. “Those are serrated.”

“I know.” He smiles. 

She takes a drink.

“Fresh bread,” says the waiter, placing a basket on their table. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW- Body horror, drunken assault

By the time dinner ends, her head is heavy, mouth cotton-dry even as she slides an ice cube over her tongue. Miserable, she stares at her still-full plate, having only been able to pick at the vegetables. She couldn't bring herself to eat the chicken, couldn't repress his voice long enough to make herself forget. So instead she stared at him, watched him take his time with his meal, feigning obliviousness to her gnarling chest. She watched him use the same knife he threatened her with to cut into a steak, the rare meat bleeding red. It is the same red of the wine, of raw throats, of skinned elbows. Even when she closes her eyes, the electric light paints the inside of her eyelids red. The whole world is weeping sanguine.

Her head jolts forward as she almost falls asleep against her propped fist. She considers just laying her head down on the table but doesn't, instead stares at her knees. She hates her knees. Or rather, she hates how they stick out. Her body takes up too much space. Maybe if she was smaller, she wouldn't be noticed.  _ How lovely _ , she thinks,  _ to fade right into the wall _ . She imagines being too small to see, too small to hit. To just be a mind… no body, no skin, no verdict… She nods off again, startling awake when Olaf laughs.

“Not tonight. Maybe next time.” 

Standing, he grabs her arm, lifts her from her seat. She trips over her own foot, stretches to smooth out her dress.  _ Idiot,  _ she chastises herself,  _ dressing like it's a damn funeral. If she had worn white, if they had seen the blood-  _ But no. She'd sooner bleed empty than wear white again.

“Someone's tired,” the waiter chuckles. 

She starts to tell him no, she's just drunk, but Olaf interrupts her. 

“Kids, am I right?” He smiles that fake smile again and she hates him, hates the practiced movement of his hand as he more autographs than signs the check. “No thanks at all.” Surreptitiously, he reaches around her, pinching her arm. 

“Thanks, dad.” She jumps away from his hand, inadvertently moving closer to him.

“You be good to your father now, you hear?” The waiter smiles. She imagines sinking her teeth into him and is horrified at her capacity for such thoughts. 

“Oh don't worry. She's a real daddy's girl; aren't you?” She is somewhat aware of Olaf pinching her cheek. Sluggishly, she shoves at his hand. Both men laugh. 

Her feet are uncertain, balance uneven as they walk, but even in her state she is marginally aware that they have made a wrong turn.

“This isn't-” she stumbles, holding onto his arm as he opens an unmarked door, pushing her inside. It's dark and decidedly the wrong room, but he's shut the door behind himself before she has the chance to do anything more than brace herself against some hard ceramic. He wastes no time in groping her, grabbing her breasts with both hands as he tries to kiss her, missing her mouth. Pushing back, she fumbles against the wall, tries to find a lightswitch. She scarcely has space to step before she's hit the back wall, fingers brushing over plastic tubes, wooden sticks. A broom closet. She's in a broom closet. Roughly, he shoves her, stepping between her legs to hold her up with his thigh, grinding his crotch against her hip. He relinquishes her breast long enough to grab her face, locate her lips and shove his tongue into her mouth. When he kisses her, all she can think of is congealed blood. Gagging, she spares a moment to be thankful there are plenty of buckets nearby should she actually vomit. 

Ever greedy, his fingers work their way under her dress, lifting it up. The waist pinches as it's forced upwards, inside seams scratching her skin, but he does not care. He is already pulling down the cup of her bra, pinching her nipples with his fingertips, always so desperate to hurt her. 

 

Crouching slowly, he kisses down her sternum, knocking her breath with a particularly harsh kiss to the crux of her ribs. Her skin is so smooth, like the glossy magazine centerfolds, all bone and trampoline abdomen. He imagines biting his tongue, leaving a trail of blood over her body, marking her as his. He wants to bite her lip and bleed into her mouth, crawl inside her veins until there is nothing left for him to take. 

Kneeling, he lifts her leg, searching with starved fingertips for where he has cut her. “Look what you've done,” finding the wound, he clicks his tongue before pressing his lips to it, feels her shudder as he runs his tongue over the seam. His fingers dig into the flesh of her thigh, her pretty dress falling around his arms. “I don't want to hurt you, Violet, but you keep insisting upon it,” he mutters, kissing a bruise into her leg so that the slash becomes an exclamation point. 

“Olaf, please. I want to go to bed.” 

He can barely see her in the dark, can only just make out her pinched forehead, the razor line of her eyelashes. She isn't looking at him, won't look at him. He smiles.

“Don't you want to be good for me?”

“I want to sleep.”

“Oh, no no no,” he clicks his tongue, standing again. “Not after you spent all night being such a tease.” He rocks his leg between her thighs, digs his fingers into her ass. She shudders. “That was an expensive meal, Orphan. If you're going to make me pay for all that wine, the least you can do is put out.”

“Please!” He can hear the tears standing in her eyes as she grips his biceps, tries to keep herself upright. He chuckles. 

“Oh, come on now.” Kissing her eyelids, he licks the salt from his lips. “Be a big girl.” Without waiting for a response, he slides his hand into her panties. She turns her face away, but does not try to leave, letting a sob rack her body. Quick, he smacks a hand over her lips, shushes her as his fingers find purchase, begins stroking her. “Quiet, now. See? I'm being kind. All I want is to make you feel good.” He rubs her in tight circles, keeps his leg between hers though she is no longer held against it. She holds onto his arms, elbows locked as she cries hot tears over his fingers. 

 

“God, it's so easy to get you wet,” he whispers against her ear. Her fingers curl into fists. She wishes she could see, had something to fix her eyes upon. The darkness is swimming, spinning, turning her stomach in drunken horror. He kisses along her jaw, his moan vibrating throughout her skin as she gasps. “There we go, good girl. See? I knew you weren't a frigid date.” Her knees buckle, blood rushing her head as she realizes with surprise that she is on the brink of climax. He speeds up, rubbing her clit in tight, raw circles. The heat grows metastatic inside her, spreading up her spine. She doesn't want to finish against his unwashed hands, doesn't want him to think she'll let him handle her so easily. If she passes out, will he catch her? 

 

The ridiculous girl is still crying. His own breath is heavy, labored as he works; he knows she likes it rough. Her whimper catches between his fingers, weight dropping as she flattens her back against the wall, groaning. 

“Good Brat,” he pants, trying to see her face. “Good little whore.” 

Her eyes are ringed in little red halos when she finally deigns to look at him. Smiling, he makes her ride out her climax, not stopping until he is certain she is going to topple over. 

 

There are so many germs in her body. She can feel them crawling off the floor, up her body, into the splitting gorge of her leg. She pictures his teeth, loose and clogging her flesh. Again, she retches, but his hand is still over her mouth and so the sound goes unnoticed. 

This is not a broom closet. It a courtroom floor. She is sitting witness to her own homicide, her body neatly labeled Exhibit A. She watches how easily he makes her cum, how he is more acquainted with her body than she is. If she had to pick her face out of a lineup, could she? He could. He found her a world away, in the middle of the sea. She watches her toes curl inside her shoes, her tongue pressing to her teeth as she groans.  _ I didn't want this,  _ she tries to explain. Perjury, the gavel bangs. You testify against yourself.

 

She falls into his arms easily enough, and so it is a small task to unzip his pants, lift her onto the rinsing tub and shove himself inside her. A well-trained girl, she muffles her cry against his shoulder. His arousal is a painful knot in his belly, and so when he thrusts, it is neither gentle nor kind. She gasps, legs tightening against his hips.

“That's right, good. You like getting fucked like a brat, don't you?” Tugging at her ear with his teeth, he growls. She whines in return, clutching him tighter. “Do you like it when I hurt you, Orphan?” He laughs as she flinches away from his teeth. Silly girl. “Do you like it when I punish you?”

“Olaf, I'm-” She groans. “I'm so dizzy.”

“Answer the question! Do you like it?” He tightens a fist in her wonderfully soft hair, feels her fingers dig into him in response. 

“Yes, daddy! I like it!” 

“Good girl,” he smirks. “You're insatiable, aren't you? Is that why you're always acting up, hoping you might be so lucky that I decide to throw you over my knee?” 

 

“No, I don't-” he interrupts her with his lips, doesn't care to hear what she has to say, too busy playing inside her. She feels his poison tongue, feels the death of his soul creep into her body. It's never been about filling the emptiness inside him, she realizes. He wants her to be as hollow as he is, wants to eviscerate her until they are one and the same. Motionless, she lies still in his arms, stares at the tumbling darkness as he moves her.  _ Maybe he will sleep tonight _ , she thinks.  _ Maybe she can sleep tonight.  _ He grunts in rhythm with his thrusts, teeth hitting hers. For a moment she is afraid he will unhinge his jaw entirely, swallow her whole. 

Without warning, he pulls her off the tub ledge, places a hand on the top of her head to shove her down. It is a movement she is accustomed to, and so she falls to her knees easily, the linoleum floor biting painfully into her kneecaps. Groaning, he slides himself into her mouth, holding the sides of her face as he begins the thrust again. She feels him hit the back of her throat, remembers again the spinning nausea in her gut. If she throws up, he might actually throttle her. Holding her breath, she closes her eyes, forces herself not to cough. With a moan, he shudders, cums on the back of her tongue. He pumps a few more times, spending himself entirely before stepping back with a contented sigh. She tucks him back into his pants, rezips the close before trying to stand again on her unsteady feet. 

“Good job, Orphan.” He grips her bicep, pulls her to her feet with a grunt. “Very nice.” She stands silent, all her words exhausted as he fixes her dress for her. Giving her one more pat-down, he kisses her lips before opening the door, shoving her out into the harsh, spinning electric light. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Jaws theme begins to play as I update this fic after writing nothing but G rated stuff for months*

“Come here, Brat.” Not looking up at her, he unbuttons the top of his shirt before pulling it over his head, exposing his bare chest to the unflattering light of the single bedside lamp as he kicks the door shut behind him. 

Untucking her legs from beneath her, she crawls off the bed, tells herself the knocking in her throat is just the ship's motion. 

“Did something happen?”

“I've had a bad day. Arms out.” Opening his belt, he tugs it out of the loops of his pants as she stares wordlessly, forces herself not to bite back that she's sure hers was worse. When she doesn't immediately comply with his orders, he snaps the belt loudly, smirking as she jumps. He wants to hit her, she can feel it. Scrambling to her feet, she walks towards him. 

“What happened?”

“No questions. Do as you're told.” Grabbing her by the wrist, he wrenches her arm upwards. 

“I'm just trying to make conversation,” she pulls back.

“I'm not in the mood for your little games. Now put your arms out.”

“You don't actually have to tie me up, you know.” She pushes the belt down, makes herself meet his eyes. 

“I'm not in the mood for you to try to run off. No fighting, just as you said.”

“Of course. No fight.” Stepping closer, she brushes her hands up his chest. 

Frowning, Olaf steps back, his eyebrow furrowed. “Nice try, Brat, but you're not going anywhere.” 

“Where would I go? And why would I want to?” Shoving down every instinct screaming at her to run, she bites back her nausea and, standing on tiptoe, presses her lips to his. There is a small moment where he kisses her back, but before it becomes anything more, he grabs her biceps and pushes her away, leering down at her. 

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” His grip hurts, and it takes everything in her not to wince away. She wonders if her arms are bleeding. 

“I'm sorry, I thought you wanted me.” 

“No, Orphan. I want to  _ fuck  _ you, and whatever this little play is isn't going to stop me.” 

“Okay.”

“Okay? What are you-” he looks up and down, assessing her. “Don't overestimate yourself, Baudelaire; whatever it is you're planning, it isn't going to work.”

“I'm not planning anything.” 

“Damn right you're not. Now lift your hands up so I can tie them.” 

“Yes, daddy. Of course.” Placing her hands beside his neck, she kisses him again. There is a flicker of stillness and then he arches his hips towards her. His lips move against hers, kissing her back as his fingers trace up her arms, ghosting over the skin. She pulls at him with her hands, craning his neck down so that she might better reach his lips. Groaning, he slides his tongue against her teeth, and then, grabbing her wrists, he throws her to the floor. 

Her elbow smacks against the ground, a splintering of pain shocking her into new terror as he stands above her, face twisted into a death mask. For a horrifying moment, he lifts his leg as if he is going to kick her, and doesn't know whether she ought to protect her face or her ribs. 

“What is this supposed to be, Brat? Do you think you're funny?”

“No,” she gasps through the pain. “No, I-”

“Is this all a game? Do you still think someone is going to come for you?” Crouching down beside her, he practically spits as he talks. 

“No! No.”

“Then what the fuck do you want, Orphan?” 

“I want to make you happy,” she gasps, still in pain. Part of her, a large part, demands she give up now, let herself cry and fight back. She wants to crawl away, to say no, but the only way out is through, and she has to live. Looking up at him, she tries to stop her body from shaking.

“You want to make me  _ happy _ ?” Growling, he grabs her by the throat, pulling her to her knees. 

Gasping, she clutches at his hands. “Olaf-” 

“Is that the story you're sticking to?” 

She can't breathe. Oh god, she can't breathe. Eyes watering, she digs her nails into his arms, tries to make him let go. She is going to die, right here, below board on an ugly ship with no one to know. 

All at once, he lets go, tangling his hand in her hair, lifting her by the roots. Coughing, she clutches at her scalp, weak knees bending as she tries to stand. 

“Yes, daddy! Yes!” Screaming, she holds onto his hand, pressing it to the top of her head so that he cannot pull any more. 

“Liar!” Yanking her sharply, he smacks her body against the wall. Pain blinds her as she sobs. This is not her body. This is not her body. “What are you trying to do?” 

“Please! I'm yours! I just want you!”

“Oh, yes?” Growling, he glares at her, livid, specks of saliva hitting her cheek as he shoves her. She wonders if the neighbors will hear. “Is this what you want, Orphan?”

“I'll be good for you! I'll be good!” Crying, she covers her head, crumples to the floor when he drops her. 

“You want to make me happy? Look at me when I speak to you! You want to bleed for me, Brat?” 

“I just want to make you happy,” crying, she ducks her head down, tears dropping onto her hands. 

Pinching her cheeks between his fingers, he squats beside her, forces her to look up at him. “What do you really want, Violet? Your money? Your freedom?”

“No,” shaking her head as much as she can, she pleads with her eyes. “Just you.” 

“What do you want from me?”

“I want to be good for you. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” 

“What are you sorry for?”

“Everything. It was all a mistake. I'm sorry, I'm sorry-” 

“And what is that supposed to mean, little Brat?” His fingers dig into her face, splitting the inside skin of her cheeks on her molars. 

“You were right all along. I was made for you. All I want is to serve you.”

“Serve me?”

“You were right.” She cannot help the tears falling down her face, hopes he mistakes the pain for honesty. “I'll never have anything better than you. Please. I need you.”

 

“You need me.” Not content to leave her misery alone, he mocks her. If she's lying, she won't be able to stand the shame for long. She'll break. “Is that right?”

“Yes, daddy.” She is so pretty when she begs, hands pressed to the floor between her bent knees. 

When he kisses her, she tastes like salt. She is an electric wire, body shaking as he slides his tongue into her mouth. Moaning, she lifts her trembling fingers to hold him, kisses him back. He grabs her by her clothes, lifts her with him as he stands. Gasping, she curls her body towards him, feet trying for purchase. 

“Olaf-” She holds onto him, her slight limbs still trembling as he tugs open her dress. 

“You want to make me happy?”

“Yes, daddy.” She stands still as he tosses her clothes to the floor. 

“What? Did I finally fuck the fight out of you?” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, but she bites her lip, looks away. “You were right. I'm so sorry.” When she turns back to him, she is still crying. The tears add a nice rouge to her usually ceramic cheeks. Stroking her hair, he traces along her neck and shoulders, pulling down her bra. She tucks her arms in closer as if to protect herself, but only succeeds in making her slight cleavage all the more appealing. 

“Yes?” He smiles, amused. Damn little thing was nothing if not hilarious.  

“Yes. I want to give myself to you. I want you to have me.” 

“And why is that?”

“Because I'm yours, daddy.”

“Very nice, little girl. Though it's funny you think you still have the choice.” Shoving her backwards, he knocks her to the mattress. 

Catching herself, she leans forward, places her hands on his hips. “Let me be good for you.”

“You want to be good?” He laughs. 

“I don't want to get hit anymore.” Suddenly shy, she looks down, watches her hands as she opens his belt. 

“Oh yes?”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl. I told you, Orphan; a little discipline goes a long way.” 

“You were right. I'm sorry.” Unzipping his fly, she looks up again with those damnable watering eyes. 

“Is that all?”

She hesitates. “Almost all.”

 

Despite his desire to seem collected, he fidgets, can't seem to decide where to put his hands.

“What are you not telling me, Brat?” 

“I-” she stares at his abdomen, the spiderwebs of scars covering his body. 

“What else, Violet?” 

Slowly, she raises her eyes, looks at his hungry face. He's tense, unsure. For the first time, they are both in uncharted territory. She wishes it felt nicer. 

“Let me get you a drink.”

“Why? So you can poison me?”

“No!” She tries to sound shocked at the thought. “I'm not a killer.”

“You've just fallen into bed with one.”

“That's different. Just let me open a bottle of wine for you.” Standing, she steps around him, hopes he can't see how her knees shake as she plucks a bottle from the table. With a pop, she opens it, lifts a glass along the way. He takes the bottle, leaves the glass, watches her as he raises it to his lips. Sitting on the bed once more, she pulls down the waist of his pants. 

When she sees his erection, her legs tense, breath catching in her throat. “ _ Run _ ,” her pulse pleads with her, “ _ run! _ ” But she does not run, cannot run. The moment she gives up, it's all for nothing. She can do this. If she is going to live, she has to do this. 

Stepping out of his pants, he kneels on the bed, kissing her again. His tongue tastes like vinegar. Reaching for the bottle, she tries to take it from his hand, but he pulls it back. 

“Not so fast, Orphan,” he smiles, shaking his head reproachfully. “First tell me what you want.”

“I want to please you,” she pets the sides of his face, tries not to look into his eyes too long. There's a coldness there that she cannot weather.

“Are you going to play nice or should I get the belt?” 

“I'll be good. I want to be good.”

“Are you just saying that so that I won't hit you?”

“No,” she denies it emphatically. “I want you.” 

“What do you want from me?”

Unable to make herself speak, she reaches forward, touches his arousal with her hand. She hates the way he shudders, the grit of his jaw like he wants to crush her between his teeth. Kneeling, he pulls her closer, looks down at her as he lifts the bottle to his lips again. Holding her face between his pincer fingers, he forces her jaw open, leans over her. Slowly, he spits the wine into her mouth. 

Instinctively, she presses her tongue to the roof of her mouth, tries to stop herself from swallowing. But he is watching her, and so she closes her eyes, swallows. She imagines her chest is lined in ice, tells herself that by the time the wine drops to her stomach, it will be nicely chilled. There is an icicle in her clavicle and it keeps her from feeling pain. Smiling, he takes another swig for himself as she sits silent, obedient, his hand cupped around the front of her throat. This is fine. So long as he is smiling, he isn't hurting her. 

“You sure you don't want me to tie you down? I don't mind in the slightest.”

“No, I want to be able to feel you.” She needs to be able to run. One of these days he is going to tie her up and leave her. It's too easy to drown like that. He sits back, pulls her by her throat into his lap, still smiling. She strokes his erection, watches his face twist at the feeling. Leaning back, he pulls his knees up so that she fits snug against him. 

“It was only a matter of time, I suppose.” Taking up the bottle again, he drinks deeply. “Should have expected as much from you though. God, you've been so eager to get fucked.” 

“I'm sorry,” she swallows hard. Would his hand leave marks? She pictures how easily he could crush her trachea. 

“Good girl.” Rough, he presses the bottle to her chest. Taking it in both hands, she drinks a mouthful of bitter wine before placing it aside, bringing her hands to his shoulders. 

“Lay back.” She lifts herself until she is kneeling, feels his erection brush against her thigh. Disgusted, she forces herself not to close her eyes as she lowers herself onto him, feels his hard cock penetrate her. Moaning, he digs his hands into her hips, bucks upwards towards her. Slowly, she moves, watches his expression change as he hisses a breath through clenched teeth. “Fuck. That's a good girl.” 

“Anything for you, daddy..” 

“Why the change of heart?”

“Because no one else knows me so well.” When he opens his eyes to look at her, she shivers. “Because I spent so long fantasizing about you. Because I needed a handsome, powerful man in my life.” 

“So?”

“So I belong to you. I need a bad man to protect me, and so long as I'm of use to you,” breaking to fake a moan, she arches her back, makes sure to press her breasts towards him, “why not be your girl?”

“I knew you were smart.” Smirking, he thrusts roughly up towards her. Gasping, she bounces atop him, a slight hiccup to her breath. “What a pretty sight. Such a good brat, learning her place. You know right where you belong, don't you?”

“Yes, daddy.” She can feel the tickle of her hair sliding over her shoulders, her scalp still sore where he grabbed her.

“Nothing's as good at taming a mouthy brat as a little discipline and a long dick, don't you think?” 

“Yes, daddy. I'm sorry.” Trembling, she can feel just how sore her legs are, wonders how long she can manage the position. He is neither slow nor gentle, thrusting himself entirely inside her with a pounding rhythm. Even when she rests, he is holding her by the hips, moving her up and down as if only using her body to masturbate himself instead of truly fucking her. 

“Olaf,” she draws out a moan, can feel how false the pitchy note is as she holds it in her mouth. 

“Yes, Orphan? Do you have something to say?” 

“Olaf, I'm going to cum.” She isn't, but he doesn't need to know that. If he'd just finish, think he lived up to his quota- 

“Touch yourself.” His eyes are hungry, ravenous as he stares at her. “Let me see you play with those little tits of yours.” Pausing, she hesitates before cupping her breasts between her fingers, trying to balance as he continues thrusting up into her. “Go on,” he nods. “Give me something to remember.” 

She closes her eyes. What she really wants to do is cup herself tightly, to keep very still. But he wouldn't like that. What would he like? She tries to remember how he touches her; if she can feed his fantasy, it might help. 

 

Her chest bounces with each of his thrusts, mesmerizing and pale. Even when she awkwardly cups herself, there is still that beautiful movement. Again, he considers what he wouldn't give to have a recording of the moment. Slowly, she circles her nipples, rolls her thumbs over the peaks. With a whimper, she bites her lip, digs her fingers into her skin, creating cleavage as she presses her breasts together. A slight gasp pulls her lip from her teeth, exposing her pink tongue as she again catches her nipples between her fingers, arches her back. 

Transfixed, he stares at her, at how pink her skin is when flushed with arousal. For the first time, he realizes she successfully got him unarmed and on his back, and chuckles. Damn girl. If she really was trying to trick him, she was squandering her chance. As if to tempt her, he digs his nails into her hips, lifting her up high enough to slam himself against her. With a yelp, she opens her eyes, a dazed look on her face as she fumbles. Holding her tightly, he slides his hands over her legs, her waist, trying to trace the contour of her. Beautiful. She is beautiful. A damn tragedy in action, but beautiful. Pushing her uncertain hands out of the way, he squeezes her breasts, delighted when she leans into the touch. Her spine is a curled “s” held in his mouth as she whimpers. 

“Yes- Yes, daddy!” 

“Go on and tell me how badly you want this, little whore.”

“I want you. Please.” Gasping, she rolls her hips, fingers tightening against his legs as she holds onto him. “I need you.”

“You want me, Orphan?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me where you want me.”

“Everywhere.”

 

She cannot look at him, cannot stand the bleeding of her heart. She imagines a dark pit, deep inside her. He is inside a cavern, a sinkhole. Between her legs, there is nothing but empty space. She is a hollow figure, and there is nothing for him to take. 

Roughly, he holds her by the throat, pulls her down so that he can kiss her. Shuddering, she opens her mouth, slides her hands up his bare chest. She tells herself that she is an actor, this is only a role. This is a part she is playing and someday it will end. However, there is nothing pretend about the swelling climax inside her, her body clearly not having gotten the memo to fake it. 

Digging his nails into her neck, he thrusts quickly. 

“Good girl. Such a good brat, aren't you?” Messily, he kisses her with his tongue, not bothering to give her the chance to answer. Biting her lip between his teeth, he tugs on it, groaning. “You really want to be mine?”

“Yes, daddy.” She is damned. She is damned but she is alive. 

“You want to be my fuck toy?”

“Olaf-”

“Answer the damn question.”

“Yes, daddy.” She is drowning. This is all a dream and she is sleeping on the bottom of the ocean.

“What if I still want to hit you?” 

He lifts his hand then, as if to slap her. 

“Don't! I'll be good, I-” 

There is a crack and then she is watching the window spin. Crying out, she clutches her stinging face. 

“Good? Do you really think you can manage that?” Taking her by the throat again, he keeps thrusting. Gasping, she scratches at his wrist. “What if I want to fucking kill you? It doesn't matter if you want to be mine. I already own you.” 

“Please,” she chokes the word out. 

“Please? Please what? What do you want, Orphan?” Ever cruel, he mocks her. 

“Please…” The air is rank and yellow, her vision straining at the edges. 

“You want me to cum inside you? Is that what you're saying?” 

Frantic, she claws at his wrist, desperate for air enough to tell him “No!” 

“You want to make me happy, isn't that what you said?”

The tears physically hurt. Her head lulls to side, begs her to fall. Suddenly, he lets go, grabs her waist again as he grunts, speeds up his pace. Humid air rushing into her lungs, she coughs, chokes on the thick taste of blood. 

“My guardian,” she spits, her voice raspy. “You can't-” 

There is a moment of static and then there is the warbling ring of someone dropping a crystal bowl. She is staring at the closet door, listening to the sound, cannot hear anything else. It is then that she remembers that he is not kind, and he will kill her as soon as the opportunity presents itself. The ringing subsides into an aching pain in her inner ear as she watches the once-glossy paint of the closet door fade into a blur through her tears. As he leans over her, presses his hand to her lower throat, she can feel the blanket beneath her, realizes she is on her back. Unmoved by her tears, he hits her again, backhands her so that his ring leaves a stinging path across her cheek. She is bleeding, she thinks. Her suspicions are confirmed when he leans down, licks her stinging cheek. The salt from her tears is almost welcome, a stinging cleansing carrying away the far worse warmth of his tongue. Pumping himself inside her, he groans his pleasure as he bites her neck, sucks on the skin. She doesn't move, preemptively takes in deep breaths, just in case he chokes her again.

She is still staring at the wall when he finishes, kissing her throat. She can feel the teeth in his mouth, her tongue remembering their silhouette like a blind map. 

“Don't tell me what I can't do,” he whispers, kisses her cheek before sitting up again. With a sigh, he reclines, crosses his legs at the ankles as he rests his head on his interlaced fingers.

 

Weakly, she pushes herself up. She is broken, a shattered doll just waiting to be discarded. Not yet. Eventually, but not yet.

“Why did you do that?” Her voice is so small, so perfectly fitting her purpled nakedness. With a chuckle, he closes his eyes. 

“Why not?” 

“I told you I would be good. I did what you asked.” 

“I don't play nice, Violet. And I fully intend to ruin you. If you want to be mine, you ought to know that. Now,” nudging her with his foot, he closed his eyes, “get me a drink.” 

 

Shakily, she sits up, takes the bottle from the nightstand. One hit. One good hit, that's all it would take. His eyes are shut, he wouldn't even see it coming. One hit and it would all be over. She places the bottle in his hands. 

“Good girl.” Lifting his head, he takes a swig. Sighing again, he looks her over, seemingly making an inventory of her body. “You know this is just a blip in my life, right?”

“Pardon?” She looks at his face, searches for a glimpse of something human.

“Say I was to keep you. Do you think any of this means anything? In the bigger picture, no one cares. No one notices. Even in the smaller picture, it doesn't matter. I leave, I live my life, I continue on my way with or without you. Nothing changes for me, the world, for anyone.” 

“Your point?” She grits her teeth, tells herself she is in no condition to fight. 

He shrugs. “So, even if you survive, your entire life revolves around this moment, this time. This is a pivot point for you, Violet,” slowly, he sits up, lifts the bottle to his mouth, “and no one else gives a damn.” 

When he hands her the bottle she takes it. He laughs when she accidently drinks too much and coughs. 

“I mean, look at you. Whether or not you like it, your life is now dated as before and after me. Assuming, of course, that you are so lucky as to have an after. You will spend the rest of your miserable life trying to remember what it was like when you hadn't yet begged to ride my cock. Trying to remember when you didn't soak your panties just thinking about all the ways I can fuck you. Is that the life you want?” 

Setting the bottle down, she stared at the gaping hole of the rim, imagined crawling inside it. 

“If I can be yours? Yes.” Somewhere inside her, there is still a voice, and it speaks for her, crawls out of her mouth as she stares at the lukewarm wine. 

“You really are pathetic, aren't you?” He laughs. “After all this, you still want to be a little pet?” Scoffing, he takes the wine back. 

“Yes.” 

“Why?”

“Because.” When she looks up at him, she is struck by how well his eyes mirror the gaping bottle. “It's all I have left.”  

Finally silent, he sighs, hands her the wine again and closes his eyes as if to sleep. One good hit. That's all it would take. She takes another drink. 


	9. Chapter 9

This wasn’t the plan.

_ Plans change,  _ Olaf tells himself, staring out at the ocean as he takes a long drag off his cigarette. 

All he had wanted to do was terrorize her a little, bully her for a few weeks and then finally, finally get to close this chapter of his life. But she was too quick, too willing to pinpoint his one and only weakness, and it had put him into quite the predicament. 

So what the fuck is he supposed to do? Get off at the dock, hold her hand, hope she didn’t run away? Point a gun at her through his pocket? The simpering brat had made him foolish, fraying his plan until it was nothing but loose ends.  _ Brat _ , he thinks to himself.  _ Orphan.  _ The words do nothing to melt the remembrances behind his eyelids, do not remove the distilled heat from his bones, too ready to recall exactly how she felt beneath him.

He stares at the churning waters, wonders what she is doing now. Probably crying, the stupid thing. She was always crying, especially when she thought he wouldn’t notice. Big tears that make her cheeks red and lined her eyes with pink veins. He can’t remember her mother ever crying so much. Must be a Bertrand thing. He takes another pull from his cigarette. The image of her crying isn’t an unpleasant one. He likes her like that, wonders what it would be like to kiss her and not taste salt on her lips. He imagines coming home to her happily keeping house, crawling into his lap all doe-eyed and giggly, a simple girl. Would he like her so much if she was simple? Like wasn’t the right word. Invested, maybe. Enchanted. Intrigued. He thinks of her crying again, turning her face away from him. What he wouldn’t pay for an opportunity at a smiling Violet. Not just shivers and groans, but actual smiles, kisses that are as deep as they are hungry. He wants to devour her, that’s what he wants. He wants to swallow her whole, to smile and have her fall to her knees before him, know her place and not mind it in the least. He wants her to want to be there, to hum as she unbuckles his belt. “What a long day,” she would say. “Such a hardworking man.” And he would scoop her up and she would not complain and she would finally, finally be the trophy she was born to be. But dreams are silly things, and he hasn’t the time for them. They’re on a ticking clock, no matter how marvelous a catch she might make. 

Taking one last pull off his cigarette, he flicks it into the ocean, watches the orange embers flicker down to the water. He would have liked to hear the hiss it made. Pity. He wonders if dropping a body would be more satisfying, if he would even get to hear the splash. Only time would tell. 


	10. Chapter 10

“What were you doing?” Grabbing her by the hair, Olaf yanks her backwards. She shouts, stumbling. 

“Nothing!” 

“You were in there awful long to be doing nothing.”

“I was showering!” 

“For ten minutes?” Her wet hair drips in his hand, soaks into his shirt sleeve. 

“Yes! Yes-” 

“Liar!” 

“I'm not! I swear!” She yelps as he releases her, already bruised kneecap smacking against the ground. At this point, it's near impossible to hit something that's not already bruised. Wincing, she scrambles back to her feet, certain he'll soon tire of leaving temporary marks. His hand recoils, ready to knock her down again. 

“Wait!” She holds her arm up to block the blow. Curiously, he stops, freezing in place. 

“What?” His voice is rough, irritated at being interrupted. Frantic, her mind races. What can she say? What can she bribe him with?

“You don’t have to hurt me.”

He laughs. “Of course I don’t have to. But it is awful fun, don’t you think?” Just as quick, he is grabbing her shoulder, an amused smile breaking over his seafoam teeth as she winces away.

“I’m no good to you broken!” Crying out, she stumbles as he lifts her arm higher. “Daddy, please!”

“Say it again.”

“Please, daddy!” The pain is searing, burning in her shoulder as he bends her arm upwards. 

“Give me one good reason not to break your arm right now.”

“I’d be less of a servant!” Straining, she tries to meet his eyes. “If you break me, I can’t serve you! A dead girl can’t keep you warm!”

He laughs again. “Always romantic, you Baudelaires. You want to serve me, little Brat? You want to service me?”

“Yes!”

“What exactly do you want? Tell me.” His grip is still tight, but his eyes have a nauseating glaze to them. She shudders.

“I- I want to get on my knees for you. I want to please you.”

“You think a warm body is reason enough to keep you alive?” he sneers, but he doesn’t yank her.

“No, daddy,” she shakes her head vehemently. “You could have anyone. I just… I have nothing left. All I have, is you. And you were right,” trembling, she stares at the floor. “This is where I belong.”

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, dropping her arm to comb both hands through her hair. “Go ahead and beg.”

“Please.” Holding his wrists, she can feel the bony frame of his body beneath the fabric. “I’ll be good. I’ll be your good girl. Please don’t hurt me.”

“And if I like hurting you?” Dragging his fingernails beneath her chin, he tucks his thumb against her mouth.

“I’ll give you something to like even more.” The words are made possible only by the recurring images of broken legs going though her mind. If she cannot walk, cannot crawl… 

“A hard bargain,” he laughs. “You really think a man of my caliber can be so easily tempted?” 

_ Yes,  _ she thinks, but she does not say so. “Let me show you. Let me prove to you that I can be good.” He stares at her, and she can see the glimmer of violence twitch in his frame. Slowly, she reaches for his shirt unbuttoning it. “Please, daddy.” 

“Go on, then.” 

He groans, pressing his thumbs to her jaw, keeping her mouth open as he kisses her. Any remaining semblance of cleanliness is brushed away as he touches her, lets his grimy hands poke her purpled skin. 

Still holding her face, he walks her back against the wall, shoves her into it as he rubs himself against her. She imagines melting through the wall, through the steel hull and into the abyss. Hiking up her skirt, he roughly strokes between her legs, not bothering to make sure she is ready before he pushes his fingers inside her. 

Pulling a breath in sharply, she winces. He laughs, nips her throat with his teeth. 

 

“You like that?” Tangling his fist in the hair at the nape of her neck, he sucks on the skin beneath her jaw, moaning purposefully. “Pretty little thing.” Tilting her head, he makes a thorough examination of her face, as if taking inventory. “No need to be shy.” He crooks his fingers inside her and she stumbles, causing him to laugh. Gently, he kisses the tip of her nose, feels her tremble beneath his lips. Such a nervous thing, this brat. “Come on then, Orphan. Show me what you're good for.”

Shuddering, her knees buckle as he pins her back again, holding her up. Her small hands pick at his shirt, sliding against his abdomen as she opens his pants. 

“Good girl.” He kisses her neck again, pulls his hand back to press her flat against him. “So well-behaved, aren't we?”

“Yes, daddy.” She shivers as he tugs her clothes off, the fabric warmed by her still somewhat damp body. 

“Get on your back.” He shoves her, watches as she falls onto the bed, her eyes wide as she catches herself. Shrugging off his own clothes, he grabs her calves, forces her legs apart as he climbs over her. “Very pretty.” He runs his tongue over her abdomen, feels the way her muscles go taut with his touch. Strainingly aroused, he plays with her just a bit longer, making her wait as he kisses all her bruises, making sure to use his teeth. 

Whimpering, she grips the blanket in tight fists, eyes shut tight. It's so easy to break these brats; they are so willing to give up. Even if she couldn't admit it, she needed something to submit to; they all do. That's the trap they all fell in. Whether it was a faceless organization or a poorly made bed, they all gave in at the end. He slides his hands up below her knees, lifting her legs. Lucky for her he was such a tender lover. 

 

As he moves inside her, she tries not to vomit. He holds onto her, pulls her against him. Groaning, she imagines her voice is the sound of a desperate bird call. It is not her. It is not her body. And even if it was her body, it would not matter. Her survival is not necessary because she wants to live; no. Her survival is necessary because he mustn't. 

“Good, Brat.” He hisses the words through red lined teeth.

She wants to die. She wants to be dead and cold and far enough away that he cannot hurt her in any way that matters. She stares at a bottle of wine, imagines pouring it over the bed, staining the sheets. How long would it take the custodians to separate it from blood? 

She can hear the bed squeak, the sounds of his grunts as he claws at her body, unraveling her into ribbons. That is fine. It is nothing new. She is already torn apart, opened at the ribs with a surgical precision so that he could make a nest inside her, line it with wires and fingernail trimmings and other nasty things. He has made her into a place, a place he visits again and again and stubbornly refuses to burn down just yet. And when he sleeps, she drowns herself in his bottles, floods every vacant pocket of her body with liquor, hopes it might sterilize her blood long enough to kill off any unwanted parts of her. 

His hand twists in her hair, tugging it, and she puts on a rehearsed show of a response, imagines hacking away his wrists. 

* * *

 


End file.
